Kings, like so much else in life, come in many qualities. King John, as is widely known, was not a good man, and, furthermore, not a good king. But even bad kings vary. Ivan, as is even better known, was a terrible king, but no-one would call him a weak one. Sages may dispute whether a strong bad king is better or worse than a weak good king, but there it is. They differ. Ranunculus was a weak, bad king, and his weakness was for boys.
Sages may argue endlessly as to why it was that Ranunculus buggered boys, but such was his preference. And given that it was his preference, Ranunculus prefered his boys young, and lissom, and well mannered, and -- well -- of good breeding. So when Ranunculus was fretful, his personal bodyguard would go out at night and bring him back a fresh specimen. And when Ranunculus' boys became less young, or less lissom, or less well mannered, or less, well, fresh, well, then he didn't prefer them any more. And when he didn't prefer them anymore, his personal bodyguard would take them out at night and cut their throats and dump them in the river. Because, you see, in Ranunculus' day, his kingdom was plagued by a parcel of priests known as mullahs, and the mullahs didn't in the least approve of buggering boys, or, indeed, having any fun at all, really.
And, as Ranunculus thought his people were revolting at the best of times, and lived in secret fear of the mob in the marketplace (whom the mullahs were inclined to whip up from time to time), he felt, very reasonably, that the fewer people who actually knew of his little weakness, the better.
Now, parents, like kings, come in many qualities. Not all of them are stupid. If you are, as the Lady Rosa was, a person of good breeding, with a young, and lissom, and exceedingly well mannered boy who is the apple of her eye, you can't help noticing that being such a boy at such a time is -- well -- risky. Or at least, you can't help noticing it when his eldest brother disappears one quiet night. And, on the whole, your suspicions are likely to be rather strengthened than otherwise when his next eldest brother goes the same way (although, naturally, on a different quiet night). Now, if one is not stupid at all, one may have noticed that, contrary to custom or expectation, in this particular time and this particular place being a young, lissom, and exceedingly well mannered girl is considerably less risky, and this may cause one to think.
Parents, like kings, come in many qualities, and the Lady Rosa, as we have seen, had some good ones. The Lord Quercus, too, was a good parent in his way, if his way was, let us be honest about this, a little odd. The Lord Quercus was an odd man. Because he had a disconcerting habit of being honest, not merely about the oddity of minor characters in trivial tales, but about, well -- well -- quite everything, really. Now honesty, of course, is a virtue of a sort, if you don't take it too far. But diplomacy is also a virtue, and publicly refusing to carry out sensible (and only midly draconian) measures against the mob in the marketplace when you are the Commander of the Royal Army (left over from a previous reign), is hardly likely to ingratiate you with the King. It is, however, quite likely to ingratiate you with the mob in the marketplace, so if you then quietly (and briskly) retire to your estate in a peripheral province, where quite by happenstance you happen to have a formidable fortress and exceedingly loyal local levies, you've a really rather good chance of getting away with it.
But as Quercus was, in fact, quite happy to be left alone with his books and his swords and his horses and his hills, perhaps he had not been so unwise after all. Because, although you may find this hard to believe, there are those people who find the life of the court, with its balls and masques and intrigues and plots, well, somewhat less than wholly absorbing; and it has to be confessed that Quercus was one of these.
Now, books one can enjoy alone, and hills and horses too, at a pinch; but it is often more pleasurable to enjoy them in company, and Quercus was wont to enjoy them in the company of his beautiful daughter, by name Iris. So, as the girl grew, she came to be a fair hand with a horse. And as, when out in wild hills full of wild game it would be tantamount to a crime not to hunt, she came to be a fair hand with a bow and a spear and -- we must confess it -- a gralloching knife. Gralloching. Such an expressive word, is it not? Generously lent us by the wild gentlemen of the barbarous north, who have a way with words. And, indeed, with knives. Not, perhaps, what the mullahs in the marketplace would wish to see in the hands of a young girl... but then, the mullahs in the marketplace would very much rather not see the hand of a young girl at all, or, indeed, any other part of her apart from a few square inches round her eyes. At least, that's what they say. Who are we to disbelieve them?
Books one can enjoy alone, as we have said, and hills and horses too (at a pinch); to truly indulge one's passion for swords, one really must have a companion, and a companion who can handle a sword with grace. For many years Quercus would fence with his Master at Arms, who was a very fair hand with a sword. But, as I have said, Quercus was more than a little odd, and the girl was growing. And, frankly, Quercus preferred her company to that of the Master at Arms. And, well, after all, it is not such a big step from a gralloching knife to a sword. Anyway, eccentric -- reprehensible, even -- as it may seem, Quercus taught his daughter to fence, and he taught her well. And so it came about that, by the time she had reached marriagable age, she could handle a sword with very great grace. With truly terrible grace.
Which, in it's way, was just as well, because when she reached marriagable age...
Well, it's all very well for Lady Bracknell to call her careless, but that is a little harsh. After all, as Lady Bracknell would herself admit, losing one parent is a misfortune; and Iris had lost her mother at birth (which was in itself not so inconvenient in it's way, since her mother, too, had been called Iris, and having two of them around the fortress at once would have been a little untidy). And parents age just like other people, particularly if they have been so unwise as to be rather old to start with. But it has to be said that, if you are going to start parenting old and from that point get progressively older, falling off your horse onto a sharp rock is on the whole to be avoided.
Be that as it may, when Iris reached marriagable age, she found herself with no parents at all, which was a little inconvenient. Because, while an elderly but widely respected military genius (known to his sovereign as 'that terrible old man') may live quietly for years on a peripheral provincial estate entirely undisturbed by regal authority, a marriagable heiress may not. The King had many cronies at court whose coffers could conveniently be swelled by the proceeds of a peripheral provincial estate, and one more heiress married to a crony was one less focus for the mindless mob in the marketplace to form around.
Now Quercus, as I've tried to indicate, had been in his way something of a scholar (as well as a gentleman). All through her childhood, he had shared with his daughter his love of books on the speculations of the sages, the arts of war, the theory and practice of jurisprudence, and the history and languages of the ancients; in all these things she was well versed. Her education in current affairs was, however, somewhat lacking.
So what with the lure which the city has for rural youth, the lure that far horizons hold for the untravelled, and the lure the metropolis holds for the provincial, it is hardly surprising that Iris chose to leave her natal place and travel through many dangers to the capital. And given the well known prejudices of the mullahs, the risks of the road, and the ridiculous and inconvenient garb deemed fitting for young ladies of refined breeding, it is hardly surprising that she chose to dress as a boy. It has to be admitted that the name under which she chose to travel, Fagus, was a trifle unfortunate considering all the circumstances.
Gentle listener, I see that you are already ahead of me. Yes, of course, she did, and they, naturally, did. Or at least, to be perfectly clear about the matter, they did so endeavour. But, as we have seen, Fagus could handle a sword with elegance and grace, and so when day dawned it was whispered in the marketplace that quite six of the King's personal bodyguard lay slaughtered upon the riverbank.
And the next night she did it again. Quite without malice, of course; but an ambush is an ambush, after all, and a sword is a sword. And what is a girl to do? So when day dawned again it was spoken in the marketplace that six more of the King's personal guard lay dead upon the river bank, and that a young knight from the provinces, by name Fagus, was the person responsible. So that night young Fagus was toasted in every tavern in the town; and the King's bodyguard didn't go out at all. The following day, however, bright and early, they did come out. They rode out of the palace gates. They rode out of the citadel gates. They rode out of the city gates. They rode, in fact, over the hills and far away, whence were they never heard again. And Ranunculus, who had always thought that his people were revolting, suddenly found that they were.
There would be a certain pointed justice in being able to report at this point that Ranunculus was, in the best medieval fashion, impaled upon a point above the city gates to make a point to, as it were, les autres. Happily, I am obliged to point out that this did not happen; in fact, he is last recorded in the history books galloping under the said point, yelling in a hoarse and desperate voice 'wait for me!'
The mob from the marketplace, meantime, were yelling something quite different, and finding Fagus in a tavern where he... where she... where he... In a tavern where Fagus was recovering from the wildest night of her... his... her...
Anyway, they found Fagus. And they thought she was him, so for the sake of convenience so shall we. So as I was saying they hoisted him head high and stormed with her through the streets of the city, crying 'Fagus for King!'. And so, to almost everyone's surprise, it came to pass. And almost everyone thought it was a good thing.
Six months later, very nearly everyone was sure it was a good thing; because Fagus turned out to be an excellent ruler. Level headed, even tempered, learned, quick witted, courageous, and good looking (if a little small). There was only one fly in the ointment, as far as the court and the populace could see: the monarch evinced no interest whatsoever in the charms of the fairer sex (and the fairer sex, let it be said, provided every opportunity for such interest to be evinced). And, in view ot the, uhhmmm, proclivities of the, ahhh, previous incumbent, this was felt on the whole not to be a good thing. Not.
So the Council of the Realm met with the King, and made it abundantly clear (in the most humble and servile of terms, naturally) that the King must wed. Forthwith and without further ado.
Now, it was clear, of course, that the connubial consort of the king must be of the highest rank of nobility, in the first flush of youth, of spotless character and reputation, and, ideally, beautiful. It would have been helpful if she could also be of proven fertility, of course, but the mullahs rather felt that that conflicted with qualification #3. So the Council of the Realm met, and considered the available talent. But, well...
Well there really isn't any way of putting this delicately. You see, for the overwhelming majority of those who met qualification #1, qualification #3 proved something of a stumbling block. Which is to say, to be precise, that the majority had stumbled already, and over something quite different. So, in the end, young King Fagus was presented with a list of only three candidates. There was Prince Pinus' daughter, Aquilegia, who had a face like a cross-eyed mare -- cross, that is, in more senses than one. Then there was Lord Betulus' daughter Gasteria, who was, well, frankly, fat. And finally, there was Lady Rosa's daughter Camelia.
Lady Rosa's daughter Camelia.
Daughter? Daughter. Definitely, definitely daughter. After all, as everyone knows, Lady Rosa's two sons disappeared in a most unfortunate manner. Do you not recall this? I'm sure I told you. Lady Rosa's remaining child is most definitely a girl. After all, when one has been introduced to the court as a girl, what is a girl to do?
So it came to pass that Fagus and Camelia were duly wed, among great rejoicing. Well, everyone else rejoiced, anyway, and if it was noticed that the bride's mother wept a lot, well, brides' mothers do, don't they? And if it was remarked that the happy couple looked somewhat somber, well, matrimony is a serious matter. And if it was commented upon that they seemed to grow quieter and more tense as the festivities progressed, well, some people have no head for champagne. Although it does have to be said that neither of them seemed thirsty.
But all good parties come to an end at last, and the moment came when the -- uhhmmm -- happy couple were escorted up the grand stairway to the monarchical bedchamber, and the door was firmly shut.
Firmly shut.
Firmly.
What, gentle reader, do you wish to know what transpired behind that magnificent portal? Shame on you! Is royalty entitled to no privacy?
But I can reveal that, after a long silence, those listening at the keyhole, or with cups to the walls of adjacent chambers, heard gales of hysterical laughter.
Thus began the long and happy reign of King Fagus and Queen Camelia, looked back upon for generations afterwards as a golden age of peace and prosperity. Together, they ran an admirable administration, dispensed decisive justice, and reformed religion, greatly reducing the influence of the meddling mullahs. And if unkind people should poke fun at the fact that the King was wont to get extremely corpulent about the time of his wife's (frequent) confinements, we of better breeding will pay no attention.
© Simon Brooke, 1998
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