Onufry Zagloba rolled around in his bed. Opening his eyes, he saw the form of his wife sleeping beside him. For a moment, as consciousness returned, he wondered whether the recent past had all been a very vivid dream. Then a wave of pain struck him around the temples. No, it had probably been real. Dreams didn't give you hangovers in the morning.
He looked again at his wife, with considerable affection. When she had found out that Zagloba had been involved in high affairs of state, she had been surprisingly understanding.
Onufry sat up. The household was already moving, and servants were preparing breakfast. He wondered how Jan Komorowski was holding up this morning. Komorowski - his father-in-law, though they were the same age - had arrived from Poland a couple of days ago.
Zagloba smiled in recollection of the night before. He knew that Birgitta's father was a merchant - not perhaps the most illustrious father-in-law for a nobleman - but his heart had melted when he found out that Jan Komorowski was a wine and vodka merchant. As a wedding-gift he had brought several crates of his finest wares, and the previous evening had been spent consuming them. Husband, wife, father-in-law and mother-in-law had been up until 3 a.m., and Birgitta had drunk the final shot. Leaning over, Zagloba kissed her head wit surprising tenderness, and hopped out of bed.
That morning was the ninth since the strange murder of Charles Cromwell. Various conspiracy theories were being hawked around the streets. The official version in Poland was that Onufry Zagloba had acted to save the Commonwealth's alliance with England. The official version in England was that Cromwell had fallen backwards onto a fire iron, stood up stunned and tried to resume work before collapsing and dying in a pool of his own blood.
A quiet funeral had been arranged for Cromwell, and a new Lord Chancellor had been swiftly appointed. Hard following on that was Marcyan Pasek's election as Pope Stanislaus I, and a series of diverting parties in Canterbury. Now, back in London, life was returning to normal. The following day Zagloba was leaving for a restful holiday in Venice, but today he had one last appointment to fulfil. Queen Anne had invited him, his wife and parents-in-law to a ceremony at the palace honouring the old retainers of Cromwell's era.
By ten o'clock, breakfasted and dressed in fullest formal robes, Zagloba waited in the lobby for the others. First down was Birgitta, in a deep red dress that accentuated her curvaceous figure. After her came her mother and father, dressed in the very latest Parisian fashions, and looking quite nervous. In the carriage on the way to the palace, Maria Komorowska asked seven times whether her hair looked right, and three times whether she should curtsey or bow to the Queen when she saw her.
By the time they arrived at the palace, the two Komorowskis had been reduced to quivering heaps of nerves. Not so Birgitta, who took Zagloba's arm with confidence, and strode towards the banqueting hall, where the reception was to take place. "Come on, mother," she said, with a wink at Onufry.
As they approached the hall, a voice said "Pan Onufry Zagloba?". Zagloba turned. A young man, dressed smartly but soberly, was looking at him, piece of paper in hand. His voice had a trace of a London accent, but his bearing was all the noble.
"Yes," acknowledged Onufry with a bow.
"John Rictus, sir, principal private secretary to the Queen, as of yesterday. Her Majesty asks whether you and your guests would consent to joining her procession, rather than taking your seats with the common guests." He gestured to the piece of paper, which showed Zagloba's position in the procession.
"We'd be delighted," said Birgitta, with a sunny beam, and led Zagloba after Rictus.
In the robing room near the palace, the Queen and various other dignitaries were gathering. Zagloba recognised Lamb, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and a few diplomats. Queen Anne came over to him.
"Pan Onufry," she said, "I am so glad you consented to be in the procession. We wanted you sitting at the front, not with the rest of the guests." She gave him a funny smile.
Zagloba wondered what was going through her mind, but concentrated on the matter in hand. "Your Majesty," he said, "the gratitude is mine. May I present my wife Birgitta? And her father, Jan Komorowski? And her mother Maria Komorowska?"
"Delighted that you could be here," said Queen Anne.
"Sq'k," said Maria Komorowska.
Queen Anne nodded to Zagloba, and moved off to greet other ambassadors. Out of the corner of his eye, Onufry saw Jerzy Rzendzian in friendly conversation with the Turkish ambassador. Across the room was Lord Ariel, recently appointed Chancellor of Cambridge University. He was in deep conversation with Sir Isaac Newton, miming big circles in the air. Sir Isaac, watching him, wore a slightly puzzled expression.
"Ooh," said Maria Komorowska, "she's so ... regal isn't she?" She fanned herself violently. "I must say I never thought that I'd ever meet the Queen of England in the flesh. Quite a turn-up, isn't it, Janku?"
"Oh yes," said Jan, with feeling, "just wait till I tell them back at the guild about this. Kacperek will be quite put out."
John Rictus, standing on a small dais, organised the procession, and they moved out into the banqueting hall. As they passed through the doors, amid the blare of trumpets, Zagloba saw a huge number of dignitaries and noblemen crowded onto small chairs, filling the hall from front to back. In front of the throne there was a red carpet, and a row of red and gold chairs. John Rictus guided him and Birgitta to their seats. Jan and Maria sat behind him.
Once the Queen was seated, a hush descended.
"My Noble Lords," she began. "As one period of our nation's history comes to an end, and another begins, it is right and proper to honour those who have served the old regime with faith and loyalty. Thus shall people in the new era know how highly England values those of its sons who do it special service. Not all those honoured today are well-known. Some you will never even have met. But they have all played their part in influencing the time in office of the late Charles, Lord Cromwell. And for that, they deserve our thanks."
She paused, and unrolled a piece of parchment.
"Ristard ua Deaghaidh!" she called.
Ristard walked uncertainly down the red carpet. Reaching the end, a brief struggle seemed to rage in his mind, and he bowed briefly to the Queen.
"Ristard ua Deaghaidh, for services to the Empire, we hereby create you Ristard, Baron of Cill Fionnurach in the county of Clare, and grant you from our personal estates the sum of one thousand pounds per year, and Marmarella Castle for residence for you and your successors."
Ristard's eyes widened, and he looked across at S’nead N’ Chroidhea’n, who was sitting in the back row, and she grinned back at him. He bowed again, more extravagantly this time, and walked to the seat next to Zagloba.
"Good morning, Lord Deaghaidh," whispered Zagloba, with a smile.
"Good morning, my good man," said Ristard, with all the hauteur he could muster. "And how are you on this fayne day?"
"Oh, well, well," said Zagloba. He was going to remark further, but the Queen's voice cut him short.
"Norfolk Bloomfield!"
Norfolk's gait was not more certain that Ristard's. He bowed before the Queen.
"Norfolk Bloomfield, for services to the fine arts, we dub you Sir Norfolk Bloomfield, Poet Laureate of the English Empire, and grant you a pension of five hundred pounds per year."
Norfolk - face as red as a beetroot - bowed and made his way to his chair.
"Geoffrey, Lord Durham!"
Anne smiled as Durham approached, and Zagloba could have sworn she saw a wink as he bowed to her.
"Geoffrey, Lord Durham of Dulsworth, for services to the Empire and your Queen, we hereby create you Geoffrey, Duke of Edinburgh in the county of Lothian, and Lord Marshal of the Queen's bedchamber. Furthermore we grant to you, your heirs and successors, the use and living of the Palace of Westminster."
Geoffrey bowed, and Zagloba was sure this time that he winked back.
"Fanny Fenwick!" called the Queen.
The lavender pig, thought Zagloba, as she swayed up the red carpet. Elliot Bloomfield, waiting in the wings, averted his eyes. He still remembered the painful conversation in which he had broken the news that he was already married.
"Fanny Fenwick, for services to the Empire, we create you Francesca, Baroness of Gedling in the county of Nottinghamshire, and hereby appoint you mistress of the establishment at Nottingham Castle, on a wage of two hundred and fifty guineas a year."
Zagloba noticed a flash of white at the back of the hall. Fanny's mother was waving her handkerchief at her daughter.
"Last but not least," said the Queen, and a polite titter ran round the room.
"Sir Elliot Bloomfield!" she called.
Elliot Bloomfield was clearly still in some pain. Nonetheless, he bowed low at the throne.
"Sir Elliot Bloomfield, for exemplary service to Empire and country, beyond the call of all duty to Ourselves and to Our Empire, we hereby create you Elliot, Viscount of New York in the county of New York, Baron of New Jersey and Lord Constable of New England. Furthermore, we grant you two thousand pounds per year, Our castle at New York and Gloucester House in London as residences for you and your heirs and successors."
Elliot looked like he could burst with pride, and a spontaneous round of applause broke out from Fanny Fenwick and Norfolk. Before Rictus could raise a hand to stop it, there was a vast roar of approval from the crowd. Cheering and shouts persisted for some minutes, until the Queen rose in her place, and held up a hand.
"My Lords, there will be much opportunity for merriment tonight. For I have declared that the palace of Whitehall should host the most magnificent banquet of my reign, in honour both of these here, and in celebration of the new era for our nation upon which we are now embarking. There will be fireworks, eating, drinking, the richest pomp and ceremony. Thus shall the world see how England treats those who are dear to her."
Another burst of cheering echoed around the hall. Anne turned to look at Zagloba, and smiled. Zagloba wondered again what was on her mind. Then she led the way out of the hall, and across the road into the Palace gardens.
The description of the banquet as magnificent was, if anything, too weak. By early afternoon, Zagloba was slumped with his wife, replete for the moment, listening to a string quintet play a selection of modern classics. A voice behind him said, "Boo!"
He turned. "Why, Sir Norfolk Bloomfield!" he exclaimed, "and how is the nation's new poet laureate?"
"Still trying to explain to Lord New York what a poet laureate is," said Sir Norfolk with a smile. "Come over here, I've got something to show you."
He led Zagloba and Birgitta to a terrace behind the palace. On the lawn in front of them, people were milling about, glasses and plates in hand. Zagloba recognised the place from the night Cromwell had died.
"I know this spot!" he said, "I've been here before."
"So you have," said Lord Elliot, coming over. "And so have I. I wonder what the Queen wants us here for?"
"I don't know," said Jerzy Rzendzian, approaching from the other direction. "But whatever it is, she wants me to see it too."
In a few moments, the terrace had filled with people Zagloba recognised from the most distant chamberpot days. His father and law and mother in law were there as well. Finally, the Queen arrived, accompanied by the new Lady Gedling, simpering quietly.
"Well, hello," she said, "what a surprise to see you all here together. I wonder what could be going on?" She winked at Norfolk.
Suddenly, there was a sound of trumpets within the palace. Zagloba turned to the staircase down which he and the Bloomfields had escaped. The door opened, and with a jolt of horror, he realised who was coming through it.
Ducking to avoid the low frame were four finely robed Polish noblemen, each holding a staff marking them out as Seym envoys.
Zagloba's heart sank. The elections! He hadn't told Birgitta about Ignacy's visit, or the half-deal that had been struck there. What if he had been elected? Rather than the quiet retirement he'd promised her, he'd be in Warsaw doing the most difficult job in the Commonwealth, and Birgitta would have to come back with him. Why hadn't he mentioned the possibility? She really would kill him this time!
Then, before he could say anything, the panic in his breast subsided. The envoys were walking over to Rzendzian. It was clearly Rzendzian that had been appointed to something in the elections. Zagloba breathed again.
The first envoy bowed to Rzendzian, who bowed back. Seeing that something worth watching was going on, a crowd had begun to gather.
In a loud voice, the envoy pronounced, "the most honourable Seym sends greetings to Jerzy Rzendzian of the clan Dolemba, by order of the Seym appointed Palatinate of Halicz!" It was Rzendzian's turn to look overjoyed. He muttered some thanks in broken Polish, and then, recovering his composure, turned and bowed at the Queen. "I must," he said, a broad grin splitting his face, "announce that my Government has withdrawn me from the post of Ambassador to the English Empire."
The Queen bowed slightly in return, and smiled at Zagloba. "I merely hope," she said, "that they will send us an ambassador worthy of the illustrious former holders of that office."
So that was it, thought Zagloba, he saw it all now. The Queen had set up the Seym to re-appoint him to his old ambassadorship. A wave of relief washed over him. He wouldn't need to take Birgitta back to Warsaw, and he didn't need to explain a thing. He was rather looking forward to reacquainting himself with his old office. He saw the envoys coming over to him, and he stood up straight, preparing himself to receive the news of his reappointment with dignity. Deep down in his soul, a small voice muttered, "but it would have been good to have been a Castellan." He took a deep breath, and bowed to the envoy.
"The most honourable Seym," declared the envoy, "sends greetings to Onufry Zagloba of the clan Pierzchala, by order of the Seym appointed Lord Castellan of Krakow, Leader of the Senate, Keeper of the Royal Wawel Castle, and Controller of the Royal Salt Pans!"
Zagloba stared. "Sorry, what was that?" he said.
From somewhere behind him, there was a piercing shriek. Zagloba bowed quickly to the envoys, and turned to see Maria Komorowska, fan working furiously, being supported by her daughter and her husband.
"Jan! Jan!" she cried, "our Birgitta's going to be a Castellan's wife!"
"I know dear," said her husband, knees buckling under the weight of his wife, "and just wait 'till Kacperek hears about that!"
"What is all this about?" said Birgitta, "You didn't tell me you'd stood for election."
"Er..." said Onufry.
"I think it's wonderful. You've got plenty of life left in you yet - and you'll be able to use it now rather than just pottering around the garden. Congratulations, love." She blew him a kiss, and Zagloba relaxed.
"My friends!" he announced. "Your Majesty, My Lords, ladies and gentlemen! As my first act as Castellan of Krakow and leader of the Senate, I hereby appoint Petronius Falkenberg to be Dean of the Royal Wawel Castle, and Castellan's chaplain!"
Taken completely by surprise, the little monk stood shocked for a moment. After a second, he bowed in acknowledgment of his appointment. Perhaps this time, he thought, he'd get a servant who didn't always crumple his robe.
* * * FINIS * * *
