Chapter 3: Mergers and meetings

"Scribe. Scribe." The King shouted, apparently, to no one. His voice echoed and bounced off the thick stonewalls of the Royal Bedchamber disturbing only a few carrot shaped stalactites, which had formed in the window reveal over the last four centuries. He threw off the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed where he had spent a restless night pondering over the problem of the 150-year war. Just as his father and his father's father had before him. Until last night, he had come up with the same answers as both of his predecessors in so much as... ??? The combination of a less than restful nights repose, the age old nagging feeling that the war was a waste of money and resources and that his bed-mate of last night had not been overly excitable, put him in the right sort of mood to behead someone just for looking in the wrong direction. Why had he abolished capitol punishment? Perhaps today would be a good day to reinstate it. The lack of an answer to the problem irked him like an itch between the shoulder blades that only contortionists can reach.

The original reason for the age-old battle had been lost in the aeons of time *. There probably had been a good and sound, sensible motive for regularly bashing each others troops up and spending vast sums of the peon's hard won fealties on the wanton carnage metered out by the antagonists. The taxes levied on the populace of Clevedon now only just paid for the upkeep of the palace and his Royal Highness's few luxuries. Women, being the most expensive. What was left for the pleasures of setting the warfare machine into place or even keeping it from rolling backwards, down the hill and straight into the lap of the Clevedonites hardly covered it and looked likely to rumble to an abrupt halt very soon if he couldn't find some kind of solution and fast.

A plan was needed. But, what to do? Raise taxes?... Nah, done that last week. Cut back on public expenditure?... Possibly, the cart routes surely didn't need so much repairing (it's quite obvious that he rarely ventured past the postern gate, the ruts could hide a fully grown cow and a small fishing industry had set up in some of the softer parts). There was always the prospect of taking out a few loans from the Merchant's guild at base rate, minus the Merchant Guilds Chapter Head's head. Saves paying it all back but that had also been done in the not too far distant past. The Guild found it very difficult to get anybody to answer to the advertisement for the vacant post. Hardly surprising, loosing one's shirt as a Guild member is an occupational hazard. One's head however, is rather more permanent. What to do... What to do?

* Two brothers held the kingdom and ruled between them. This worked very well for two years until Castor put into effect a set of orders to the home guard that was in direct contravention of his brother Pollux's previous set of orders. No big thing really, but at the dinner table, over a wild boar and several jugs of mead, they argued about the situation, Pollux maintaining that Castor had deliberately countermanded his authority. The argument deteriorated quickly in to Did... Did not. After many days of not talking to each other, they agreed to separate the rulership, thus overcoming an ongoing problem of marauders attacking from either end of the realm. The arrangement worked for a further two years until One of Pollux's men accidentally strayed into the wrong half of the divisional line and killed a deer for the king's table. He was observed by a huntsman of Castor's who duly reported the incident. The brothers fell out once again and employed the use of their respective armies to sort the mess out.

Financing the overlong campaign wasn't the only problem associated with keeping the machine going, recruiting new foot soldiers also had it's difficulties. Young men of conscriptive age had a habit of mysteriously dying or disappearing either just before or just after the papers were served. Those that died seemed to be able to reincarnate a little while later with no identification papers and were always taken in by a family who had just suffered a bereavement. In the 150 years that the conflict had been running, the palace guard and recruitment centre still hadn't cottoned on to the ruse.

A plan began to formulate from the befuddled mist that he used to think with.

King Johan threw a cloak over his bed shirt and stomped over to the heavy oak door that kept him in as much as it kept others out. Using a poker, which had been left just for the purpose, he levered the door open a crack and wedged his fingers around the edge pulling with all his considerable weight and pushing with a foot against the wall, he managed to open the solid portal. The result of a previous cost cutting drive, all non-essential retainers were let go. Nothing worked in the place any more.

The sentry on guard outside in the corridor reluctantly left the clutches of an Amazonian partner with a wrench as Johan's foot temporarily rearranged his left side rib cage and was doing it's best to severely damage one or more of his vital organs. As he slowly began to tilt towards fully prone, his Liege spoke to him for the first time since his commission that had been taken up at the tender age of twenty one, twenty one months ago.

"Get me the Scribe." Growled the king looking something less than regal with his foot firmly planted between two ribs of the unfortunate guard and trying to extract it while still keeping a modicum of respectability with his cloak which had other ideas.

"Sire, Yes Sire." Spluttered Grenville whose turn it had been to be sentry. It always seemed to be him that drew the short straw. Fact of the matter was, the rest of the Palace Guard fixed the draw each afternoon with only short straws being clutched in the Captain's hand while longer straws were clutched in the other hands of the drawers behind their backs. Grenville would catch on soon enough, but only after a new recruit had been press ganged into commission. He would probably die first of old age.

He saluted smartly, smacking himself in the temple raising small stars, in his enthusiasm to comply with the King's directive and get away from the extracted foot which was hovering slightly as the King fell over backwards showing the Royal wedding tackle that firmly wanted to be a bachelor. Queens cost money and besides, the thought of any long lasting liaison with the available lady courtesans currently frequenting the dusty galleries and great hall held something of a revulsion. Now there could be a source of funds. Strip the blood-sucking leeches of their finery and put them out to work somewhere like the street maybe. The thought, although attractive, was not really workable. He needed the network of spies that daily plied their trade, which fuelled the intrigues that kept them all fully occupied. Most of the time, information could be bought for a price. Johan could offer protection from mutilation, scandal and public disclosure. If the informant required money however... , well that was another side of the two headed coin so to speak and usually meant the informant finding his head in his own lap.

Johan got up and glared at the retreating back of the cream of his forces and returned to his room, muttering under his breath about the return of capital punishment, beheadings and bodiless heads proudly looking down from a large spike.

He waited. Then he waited some more and then a bit more, until his patience frayed beyond the point of being able to adhere together. His mood was now entering volcanic proportions, which had a rather fetching effect on the colour of his face taking it through pink to purple shade by shade.

A tentative knock on the door post short circuited the outcome of any further delay on the King's cardio -vascular system and postponed the catastrophic result of a kingdom being without an heir to the throne for the foreseeable future.

"Get in 'ere." Johan was almost apoplectic.

A head poked round the edge of the door and blinked several times before a tremulous voice came from the quivering lips that had been stuck onto a face that looked for all the world like one of those potato men complete with eyes.

"You requested me Sire?"

"No!!! I want the damn SCRIBE!!! For pity's sake, am I surrounded by complete idiots?" His voice went up an octave, so did his colour.

"If it please your Highness Sire, I am the scribe." Reported the still bodiless head.

"What happened to the last scribe, eh?"

"Sire, he died your Kingship." The head was now accompanied by a pair of shoulders.

"Died... Died!!! What of?" Johan was fit to erupt, any second.

"Boredo..." The head and shoulders nearly told the truth which would have been a big mistake, given the circumstances. * "Heart failure Sire, your most worshipful." Nobody thought to give the poor scribe any instruction regarding the correct manner with which to address his Liege at his interview, which went something like...

* The circumstances that caused the demise of the previous Scribe were as a direct result of the Chancellor's advice to the King regarding performance payment, self-employment and time and motion concepts. In short, the poor man died of starvation and boredom. In the twenty years of dedicated service to the king, he had only written one letter that being a 'J' in bold type face with bits of gold leaf and green inky swirls to make it look attractive. The king never used the royal monogram and so only paid the reduced sum of 1 groat which was taxed at the current rate of ninety percent.

"Can you read?"

"A little bit."

"Can you write your name?"

"Yes." (Hesitant)

"Good. Then write it on here. You're hired."

"What as???"

"Royal Scribe. Now sign".

"Take a letter." Johan's instruction fell on the newly appointed scribe (just this morning in fact) like a rhino landing on his head from approximately seventy feet with a ten ton weight attached.

"Sire, if it please you your most reverent, might I go and fetch some parchment and a quill?"

Johan's voice became deceptively quiet. "Are you the scribe or not?"

"Yes, your most Regalness."

"Yes what". There was a dangerous undercurrent to his tone.

"Yes your oneness". Peeps replied completely missing the point thinking that he had used an incorrect address.

"Not wishing to overtax your little brain, I meant are you the scribe or what"?

"Oh! That's what I meant. Yes I am the scribe, your most merciful pontificate". He hadn't even used capitol letters.

Still quietly and with the same dangerous undertow. "Then why have you come at my bidding without the implements of your trade may I ask?"

"I... I... Didn't know what a scribe does until about three minutes ago. Oh most merciful ruler of all your wondrous eyes survey." His eloquence had little effect on the pallor of the King who had now sat down on the edge of his bed and was swinging his leg rather like a fresh corpse on the end of a tight rope.

" Then I suggest you find some equipment and learn all about being a scribe within the next thirty seconds. Do I make myself clear?" His voice still sounded calm which successfully hid the multitude of boiling emotions that were pressing for release and not taking no for the right answer.

"Yes your most holy. Right away your Regalness." He had run out of titles with which to address the King and was starting to repeat them in the hope of getting one right. He bobbed his head and shoulders and vanished from the safety of the door just before the Royal chamber pot (half full)(depending on whether you are a pessimist or an optimist). Hit the empty space, which, had recently been vacated.

After frantic searches, running, scratching of heads and beseeching, Peeps returned to the King's chambers armed with two newly sharpened quills, a pot of ink and a roll of parchment. He had also found the previous Scribes accounts in his haphazard scrabbling through his predecessors quarters, the accounts would have made interesting reading had there been anything entered into the long columns with red lines drawn at the bottom. He stuck his head around the door for the second time in as many minutes.

"Sire (breathlessly) I am returned and carry the equipment as ordered. I am your servant, now and for always, your mightiness." He had begun to think up a few more exaltations while running back from the Royal Stationery closet.

"Get in here man and stop dithering." Johan's mood had had a chance to level off a bit and was now only seething. "Right, are you comfortable?" he didn't pause for an answer. "Then I'll begin."

The newly dipped quill hovered over the parchment and was clutched in a similar manner to that of an assassin holding a stiletto dagger, by Peep's trembling hand.

"By Royal decree..." began the King. He dictated the letter with frequent pauses for spelling difficult words like Royal and decree, several splotches which needed blotting paper (not available) and one lengthy halt while Peeps went to the toilet.

The result of three hours work looked rather like this:

Bye Royl Decree.

His most Royl Magistee

JOHAN THE GRATE

DOFF INVIT AGEFFA 2 ATEND THE PALASS

AT HER SOOONETH CONVIENCE

Regads

His most Royl Majefty

KING JOHAN

THE
GRATE

x...

R.S.V.P

Only the edges were a bit dog-eared and frayed from being thrown in a cupboard with several successive families of rodents having little else to eat.

"So if you'll sign just there Sire". Peeps indicated a dotted line proceeded by an X at the foot of the page.

"But it's already been signed". Johan pointed to the X with his stubby forefinger.

"Ah". A knowing look appeared in Peep's eye coupled with a nod.

Peeps blew on the finished article to dry the ink and rolled the parchment into a small tube. Johan melted a red candle and created a Royal seal with the wrinkled back of a knuckle in the absence of a signet ring, which had been lost in a game of bones by his father. A homing pigeon was appropriated from somewhere and the tube attached to its leg after which, it was tossed up in the air. The loaded pigeon did what any self respecting pigeon would do in the circumstances, and dive bombed the launcher and dropped it's own message squarely on the crown of a balding head then flew back to home which was in the eaves of the palace, just above the Royal Chambers.

King Johan's grand, new and extremely cheap strategy for overcoming his archenemy was to employ the services of magic. If it was all that it was cracked up to be, and from what his very poor reading capabilities had told him once when he thought that reading might pass some time away. His imperial army would be at least doubled in strength, tripled in guile and quadrupled in fighting prowess. If only he knew, poor, sad berk.*

The war had finished over one hundred and forty nine years ago. Well it had as far as the opposing soldiers were concerned. After one week of intense sending of offers and counter offers of terms of surrender, both sides had decided to call it a day without one sword raised in anger. One man lost his life in the cause of his Kings orders however, the unfortunate Infantryman stepped of a cliff whilst trying to compose a poem of epic proportions about modern day warfare.

The armies held a confab in no mans land, on an ant hill, and decided to set up home on the battle fields. A regular influx of money came from the respective Royal coffers which kept them, their sons and daughters and new recruits in the style to which they became quickly accustomed.

*Johan was profoundly illiterate, rather like a man with his eyes pecked out is profoundly visually challenged.

Battle, for that's what they had ironically decided to call the thriving township, had flourished in the one hundred and forty nine years of its history. An autonomous method of self government was developed with the biggest and strongest having complete rule over all and sundry, until someone bigger and stronger came along.

Needing little exported enterprise, hardly any contact with the surrounding area and having sufficient funds to import all that was required to feed, cloth and keep the inhabitants in a complete state of lechery and debauchery. (The wagoneers from the respective armouries where taken into the conspiracy with threats and the occasional romp with some of the looser ladies of the street.) The town had spread its borders and sprawled over a healthy patch of verdant valley, surrounded by cliff tops. The original inhabitants had paired off with girls bribed to come along and so beget whole family lineages. Fashion took a backward step, just about everyone wore military style uniforms being the usual form of clothing supplied by the Quartermasters of Clevedon and Bretton.

(It is quite possible that the fashion started Chairman Mao off centuries later. Just a thought).

Bretton, the other supplier of town's folk and wealth for Battle was having a bad day. King Sebastian had ordered an inspection of his home guard, then wanted a review of resources followed by a complete breakdown of the finances. He had also got up in less than a brilliant mood. He may have wished that he'd stayed in bed or taken a holiday.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer had been cooking the books for two years and now, out of desperation was cooking the books literally, having tossed them in the soup tureen on his way through the kitchen to the back postern gate and the long road to somewhere else, anywhere else would be good right now as long as there were several miles between himself and his former seat of power and wealth. He would be greatly missed along with a fair proportion of the crown jewels, which were also heading towards the postern gate at exactly the same time. Funny that, eh?

Sebastian, having spent the entire day unravelling the complete and sorry mess that his kingdom had fallen into, was...

Well... if I said he was beside himself with rage, it would be an understatement.

So filled with an emotional paroxysm, which included the desire to not only kill, but mutilate slowly the cause of his malady, that he couldn't speak. He could not stand, he was only just able to breath and all leave of any nerves or sense had just been cancelled. Revenge figured largely in his thoughts and so did mass murder. He eventually sat in his private chamber with a steaming dish of freshly roasted pheasant in mead and wild thyme, being ignored in front of him. Pheasant was his favourite and the Royal Chef De Partie was trying to raise his Majesty's temper to one of sheer malice in stead of the worse, off with their heads type of mood that he currently was contemplating.

Jason the court Jester was also trying to amuse his Liege, unsuccessfully as usual. His bells had a limping sort of sound which went jingle, jang... His left leg in plaster from hip to toe where he had tripped over one of Sebastian's wolfhounds and smashed his leg against the fire place. This was the first and only time that Sebastian had laughed at his Jester saving him from the gallows.

"What am I to do?" Asked the king to no one in particular. "My kingdom is ruined, there's nothing left." His head sunk to his chest, tears of frustration and unadulterated hopelessness coursed their way down his cheeks soaking into the small white cotton ruff that is so fashionable this year. The starch had no chance against a drenching of saline tears.

"What do you call a King with no Kingdom to rule?" Quipped the Jester. "You call him... Ha Ha Ha! He fell over, banging his head on the floor and knocking himself senseless.

Fortunately for him, Sebastian had too much going on in his mind to hear the poorly timed joke. Instead he wrung his hands and began a low mantra that he had learned as a child and began to rock slowly backwards and forwards.

"Ohhhmmm. Ohhhmmm..."

The chant continued for an hour or two uninterrupted until the Jester came round.

"There was a young lady from Bretton

Who kept all her money upon...

"Go away." Sebastian whispered between his teeth.

"Sire..."

"Now... ! I'm trying to think." The whisper had a steel edge that cut the air extremely cleanly.

The Jester had one of those rare, lucid moments when the right decision enters his brain. He departed the chambers backwards, bowing with every step until he hit the wall near the door, sidled along and backed out into the passage.

Sebastian had indeed been thinking, was still thinking and was coming up with conclusions. It's amazing what a couple of hours good thinking time can produce and Sebastian had come up with a doozy of a plan to at least quell some of the outpourings of his realm. He called for his chief advisor and the captain of the guard.

"Gordon, collect the Generals together, if you can find them, and tell them to report to the meeting hall in one hour." Gordon, the captain of the guard, resplendent in his new leather armour acquired from the Quartermaster for a small consideration, saluted smartly and turned to carry out the King's order. "That is of course, if they can remember where it is." The sarcasm wasn't lost entirely on the retreating back of his créme de la créme.

"And you, your job is to advise me, isn't it? So advise me. I want a replacement Chancellor. One who can be trusted not to fleece my reign of all that it still owns. Then I want you, the new chancellor, the cabinet and the head of the merchant's guild at the meeting hall in one hour. Is that understood?"

Porter was not used to being addressed by Sebastian in such a terse manner nor was he familiar with taking orders, from anyone, but he recognised that perhaps this might be a good time to learn, and how. He gave it one last shot at being the reptilian snidey wangler that he regarded as paramount to being the Kings Chief Advisor. After all, it had served him extremely well up until now.

"Thire, might I arthk what Hith Majethty intendth?" His weasely features sort of sidled up to the King's face as he shuffled a little closer and spoke in his usual conspiratorial lisp. "Perhapth I can be of athithtanth and advith you of the betht way forward."

Sebastian looked at his nearly former advisor, wondering why he hadn't got a forked tongue and scales to match his personality. Loathing of the man and all he stood for made him shudder.

"If you want to keep you head, you will do as I've asked. You will do it extremely rapidly and very efficiently. Now run along there's a good chap."

Porter had just been taken off his Christmas card list as had the Captain and most of the noblemen whose sole purpose should have been to see to the effective day to day running of the shambles that remained of his kingdom. Now that he had had time to clear his head and sort out the turmoil of negative information that had become glaringly apparent during his reconnoitre of the condition of the coffers, things had clicked into place and landed like a slab of concrete on his foot. Many of his so-called ministers of the realm would be lucky to escape with their heads still attached to the rest of them by the end of today. It was time for action, long overdue with a huge fine. Now was time for a shake up on the magnitude of Armageddon. Sebastian was not only going to get angry, he was going to get even with some retribution thrown in for good measure.

The king had made a friend of his regular night watch guard. In his many sleepless nights, desirous of human company, they had played chess and chatted the dark hours away. It was he that Sebastian was now cloistered with. Clarence, so nicknamed because of a wonky eye, was fiercely loyal to his friend and Liege. Many had been the times when a fight had ensued after a derogatory remark was passed by one of his colleagues. His fighting prowess had not been missed nor had his considerable strength coupled with a girth that could put the original fat lady to shame. He was widely regarded as the natural successor to Gordon should he ever step down, which was highly unlikely, and so he became popular with the rank and file members of the Palace Guard, having their ear and keeping the confidences of too many to count. Guile and a certain craftiness plus a basic honesty, helped his meteoric rise to Sergeant by popular demand. Training, although just as stringent under his critical eye, was just a little more bearable with his brand of fair play.

He received his instructions, didn't question the motives and hurried off to implement Sebastian's, very precise plan. Even his long departed mother, God rest her soul, wouldn't have reproached him for the gleeful glint in his one good eye nor the leer spread across his mouth. He was looking forward to this assignment like no other before.

Precisely one hour after the king's orders had been given, the hall held one throne with king upon it. One royal advisor. One Captain of the guard and two sleepy dogs who laid in front of the fire.

"Well, where are they?" His patience dripping away at the same rate as his fingers were drumming on the arm of his throne.

"Thire, They will be here ath thoon ath pothible Thire. I told them that it wath important and tho it thoudn't be long."

The king regally turned from the contemptuous advisor and focused his full attention on the squirming Captain.

Gordon shifted from one foot to another and looked studiously at his feet.

"And?" Sebastian's voice became dangerously quiet.

"There was a football match on sire." He mumbled into his chest not wishing to make eye contact with a strangely different monarch.

"Speak up man!" The huge hall echoed.

"Sire, I said there was a football match on Sire and they outrank me by a bit. Sire."

"The rats will outrank you if they're not here in five minutes. That goes for you too. Now piss off and fetch them." He was building up a good head of steam and had a perverse feeling of enjoyment from the situation. The delay fuelled his resolve, stoking the fires smouldering behind a burning desire to wring their scrawny necks.

The sun, at last, fell of the edge of the sky. A whole day had been taken up with trying to sort out just how bad the situation had become and wondering how the monarchy could have been so duped over such a long time without somebody tripping over the evidence.

In three minutes flat his Generals and the members of the government where shepherded in by the flustering Gordon and Porter. Mumbles of dissent could be audibly heard as they shuffled in and took their places. The Chancellors chair remained empty however.

"Did I tell you to appoint a new Chancellor, Porter." He raised his voice above the hubbub.

"Thire, yeth Thire, but I couldn't find a thuitable candidate Thire." Porter had no control over this meeting and was in complete confusion having found his usual seat beside the king's ear taken by his Highness's feet. "I wath hoping to dithguth it with you Thire at a more appropriate time, Thire."

Sebastian stood and listened to the mumbles of the collected leaders. Ex-leaders, and ignored the fawnings of Porter. Clarence took his cue from the movement and bolted the doors firmly shut. The remaining Palace Guard fanned out around the perimeter of the hall and bore their pikes in a menacing fashion.

"Right, we're going to play a game called own up." Began the king. "And You all will in turn, tell me about the little scams you have been running and how you're going to pay it back." He surveyed the now deathly silent room that seemed to house a lot of shocked and open mouths all of a sudden. "Who would like to be first, eh?"

General Beauregarde fainted and fell face first onto the floor.

"Guards, arrest that man, clap him in irons. Take him to the dungeons and feed him to the vermin."

After a five hour tour of the nefarious deeds of his most trusted cabinet ministers and military geniuses the coffers of the treasury had swollen by the assurance of more than two hundred and fifty thousand groats plus several tons of gold and jewels with many times more to follow once the banks opened.

The extent of the fiddling and appropriation of wealth through various misdeeds had shocked Sebastian into a stunned silence. The sheer scale of the loss of public funds was far worse than his scan of the ledgers this morning had indicated. Whole dynasties had been founded by the skimming antics of several ministers. Families had shot to prominence, funded by misdirected monies that were channelled through from the treasury to the laundry * which was next door. Then out of the palace in baskets tied to what were ostensibly mule trains, eventually to filter into various accounts held by the families front men through shady contacts in the finance sector who each took a cut.

The operation had been running, successfully undetected for over a hundred years. Started by one General Flynn who was discovered by the Exchancelor of the time and given an offer he couldn't refuse for the information so that he could partake of the funds and impart the knowledge for favours. The network had been self-policing and explained the disappearance of many leading families overnight. It seemed the only one not actually involved in the scam in some way was the Royal family, who should always be above reproach. However, a large part of the Royal bounty had some pretty shaky foundations and wouldn't bear too much inspection.