The Lords' Day (retail) by Michael Dobbs Read Free Book Online Page B

of the usual barriers of concrete and steel that protected the parliament building, now there was nothing but
wide, open space. The forecourt of the House of Lords had been cleared of all the regular security checks and devices, and where armed policemen normally patrolled, today Harry found nothing but a
troop of young adventure scouts, boys and girls, standing in the sun. Here, everything seemed peaceful and was assumed to be safe. In fact, by this time the policemen who usually patrolled the
corridors within the parliament building were being withdrawn as their presence was deemed to be not fitting with the pomp and splendour of the occasion. To Harry, this seemed to miss the point.
Hadn’t almost all serious threats to the lives of monarchs come from within this building, not from without, from the likes of Guy Fawkes and Cromwell and the rest? For a moment, it struck
Harry that all the forces of security he had passed that morning were looking the wrong way, but life was often absurd. Then his mind strayed back to the field of poppies outside the church, and
the small gatherings of loved ones who had come to remember. A disturbing thought suddenly grabbed hold of him and began to shake him. If he died, right now, today, who would be there to mourn? Who
would bother to remember him? Who would come to plant a poppy in his name? Lacking any answer he found acceptable, Harry hurried on.
    10.25 a.m.
    It was almost time. The senior judges were en route from the Royal Courts of Justice in a convoy of cars. The adventure scouts listened to their final instruction. The men and
women from the BBC ran one final test. Yet not everything was running smoothly. The Vice-Chamberlain of the Household, the government minister who was to be held hostage at Buckingham Palace for
the duration of the ceremony, was descending into a state of panic. A fly button on the grey-striped trousers of his morning suit was hanging by the slenderest of threads and would never last the
morning. This was his first time; he was nervous, and all but screamed with frustration. His secretary, as always, came to the rescue with a soothing word and a needle and thread, trying not to
laugh at the sight of his dangling double cuffs and pale pastry knees.
    The benches in the chamber were beginning to fill. The first bishop had already taken his place, and behind him ambassadors and envoys were gathering. The first to arrive was
the High Commissioner of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, a portly man dressed in a bright gold and highly decorated achkan , a long coat that ended at the shins. He leaned heavily on a
walking stick, and at his special request had been placed at the end of the leather bench rather than being forced to squeeze between many others. The high commissioner had only recently arrived in
London, following the turmoil and revolution that had left his country with a second change of government in less than a year. Robert Paine sat nearby, but they exchanged nothing more than the
briefest greeting; the weight of his country’s troubles seemed to weigh heavily on the Pakistani’s shoulders. Paine looked up and offered a private smile to Magnus and William-Henry who
had taken their places in the gallery. It was a narrow and desperately uncomfortable perch, designed for women of a delicate Victorian stature, but the two friends hadn’t a care, leaning
forward to spy on the scene below. They found a sight that was staggering and, to their young eyes, even faintly comical. Television lights danced upon a brimming sea of tiaras, medals, brooches,
silks, jewels, decorations and dog collars. Their pro gramme told them they were looking down on Pursuivants Ordinary and Extraordinary, heralds and high men, barons, bodyguards and bishops, earls
and ushers, and they thought they could see Pooh Bah and Uncle To m Cobley mixed in there, too.
    ‘Straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan,’ Magnus muttered in awe.
    ‘Like one of those fifties