A Plague of Hearts, Patrick Whittaker [good books to read for 12 year olds TXT] 📗

genuine love of science, or whether it was a simple ruse to keep Her Majesty the Queen at bay would be difficult to say; but the fact of the matter is that, upon his sixtieth birthday, the King had suddenly declared a keen interest in arachnology - the study of spiders. To this end, he had set aside the Hall of Balconies for his own use and filled it with row upon row of glass tanks.
The King’s domain had shrunk from a Kingdom to a room-full of spiders. About two million of them. He had started with three hundred, representing some forty species from twelve countries and three continents. There had even been a pair of rare arctic funnelwebs, brought from the Northern Plain by a seal hunter who’d had little idea of their scarcity or value. Alas, the funnelwebs were no more. In a vignette of great irony, the female had devoured the male and then died of food poisoning. Arctic funnelwebs do that a lot. It’s what makes them so rare.
Upon his arrival at the Royal Palace, the March Hare was directed to the Hall of Balconies. It was not yet eight o’clock but the King had been driven by insomnia to visit his lair long before the crack of dawn. And so it was that the March Hare found himself knocking on the most avoided door in the palace.
He tapped three times, waited, and then tapped again. A deep, ponderous voice reverberated through the mahogany door, it bade him enter.
The King was at his desk, eating breakfast. His huge bulk loomed over a bowl of cereal, dominating it the way a mountain dominates a lake. By palace standards, it would have been a fairly mundane scenario but for the dissected spiders pinned to the desk.
The March Hare bowed. The King seemed not to notice. Sunlight spilled through low, narrow windows, bestowing glistening glory upon a forest of spider silk. Strands of gossamer vibrated as their builders awoke and took up position in readiness for the first kill of the day.
The King dropped his spoon. The March Hare picked it up and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
‘If his Majesty will excuse me one moment, I will hasten to the kitchens and bring him another spoon.’
Shaking his head, the King held out his hand. ‘Give.’
‘But, sire, it would be most inadvisable to use this spoon now that it’s been on the floor. Just think of the germs.’
‘Cornflakes,’ said the King. ‘Just think of my cornflakes. How long will it take you to bring a clean spoon?’
‘No more than a minute, Your Majesty.’
‘A bit more than that, I think.’
‘Well, maybe two - perhaps even three. But definitely no longer.’
‘And what, in the meantime, will happen to my cornflakes? Will they not absorb the milk and become soggy? Do you expect me, your sovereign, to burden my already-troubled digestive system with flaccid cornflakes?’ The King slammed his fist on the table, throwing up a tiny cloud of dust. ‘I cannot conceive of anything less pleasing than a gutful of mushy breakfast cereal! Now give me that spoon or I’ll have you flogged!’
Reminding himself about the better part of valour, the March Hare returned the spoon then turned away and feigned and interest in a row of eight tanks, all marked with a red cross. A sign on each of them warned: Feed only as instructed - see log for details.
The King finished his cornflakes and then attracted the March Hare’s attention by tapping his bowl with his spoon. ‘Don’t bother clearing the table just yet. You can do it later. First I want to talk to you.’
‘Sire?’
‘Sit down.’
‘There’s no chair.’
‘Then stand.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘I’m getting mightily pissed-off,’ said the King, ‘with the way I’m being treated in my old age. Once upon a time, I actually had some say in the running of this kingdom. Nobody questioned it. Why should they? By the grace of God, I was King and that was an end to it. People knew that Kings and Kingdoms have a special function. Together they serve the people - provide a framework of tradition in which everyone can work and live without worrying about sudden changes in the order of things.
‘Straighten your shoulders, boy. You’re a Royal Servant, not some hick yokel from way out yonder. Let’s see some dignity.
‘Where was I? Oh yes - Kings and Kingdoms. In any society, the one key thing which holds the fabric together and prevents a drift towards chaos is Leadership. And only a few men are blessed with the quality of character to provide it. I’m all for democracy - within reason - but at the end of the day there has to be someone whose word cannot be questioned, whose decision cannot be over-ruled. And that someone has to be born to it. They have to have the correct heritage, training and background. It’s in the genes. Do you see what I’m driving at?’
‘You’ve put it very succinctly, sire.’
‘The Panda is not a King. He has no understanding of the workings - the nature - of our Kingdom. This damned war is proof enough of that.
‘Left in the hands of that lunatic, Hearts will be destroyed, humiliated and subjugated by people who were once our friends and allies. I suppose I must accept part of the blame for that. I should never have let the situation get this far out of hand.
‘Listen, boy. I know what your friend Doctor Ormus is up to. I know all about the Red Orchestra and their plans to overthrow the Panda and re-establish my power as Head of State. And, frankly, I’m all for it.
‘Oh, don’t look so dismayed, boy. I may have relinquished most of my responsibilities, but I do nonetheless keep an eye on what my subjects are up to. The Panda thinks he has the largest, most effective spy network in the country. He’s wrong. Ask me what the least of my citizens had for supper last night and I’d be able to tell you within three hours. For instance, I know that you are as yet unaware of the identity of the true leader of the Red Orchestra - the so-called Big Cheese. Perhaps you think it’s Doctor Ormus? I hope not. Only an idiot would believe it was him.
‘I know who the Big Cheese is, but I’m not going to pass that information on to you. If the Red Orchestra want to keep you in the dark, then they have their reasons.
‘I just want you to let them know that I intend to give whatever support I can. But they must always keep in mind that I can in no way be directly involved or implicated in any of this. Certain of my men have already provided Ormus with valuable intelligence. Of course, he had no idea they were my men, but that hardly matters. A friend is a friend is a friend.
‘I want you to tell Ormus that I have a man in his organisation who will reveal himself in the next day or two. If he co-operates with my man, he’ll have all the help I can give him. Is that clear?’
It was only too clear. The March Hare felt himself being pulled ever deeper into a position of dire peril. Tendrils of intrigue were closing around him, tightening their grip with every passing second. The more he fought against it, the more he twisted and turned, the tighter the tendrils would hold him. They would not relinquish their hold now that they had him so firmly in their grasp.
‘Is that clear?’ repeated the King.
‘Terribly clear, sire.’
‘Good. Any questions?’
‘Just one, sire. It concerns the Knave of Hearts.’
‘A brave man, but a reckless one. He should never have got caught. You’ll be pleased to hear that he’s very much alive and will stay that way for a few more days at least. The Panda is arranging a show trial for him.
‘I’ve done as much as I can for him. It’s clear that the Panda hoped to use the trial as a means of stirring up resentment against the Red Orchestra. His intention was to turn them into scapegoats.
‘Fortunately, however, he decided to charge the Knave with a breach of the Official Secrets Act, and with a war going on that translates to a charge of high treason. I have therefore exercised my Royal Prerogative to bring the matter into my own jurisdiction. It will be I and not the Panda before whom the Knave will stand trial.’
‘And you’ll find him not guilty?’
‘I only wish I could. But to do so would leave me open to charges of collaborating with the Red Orchestra, and that would be very bad for all concerned. We have to face facts, and the most obvious fact right now is that we are losing the war. It won’t be long before the Spadisher army comes marching in triumph through the gates of this palace. If this nation is to survive at all, it must have a Monarchy. Were I to be condemned as a traitor - or if the people should even suspect that I was one - then the whole fabric of our society would disintegrate, possibly forever.’
‘And so you’re going to let the Knave die.’
The King looked grave. ‘I have no choice. Tell Ormus to give up all hope for the Knave. This is war. There’s bound to be casualties.’
‘I won’t tell Ormus anything,’ said the March Hare, bitterly. ‘This whole affair makes me want to be violently sick. I’m not even sure who the good guys are any more. Neither you nor the Red Orchestra have any right to involve me in your schemes. I don’t care for them and I don’t think they have a hope in hell of succeeding.
‘Once we surrender to Spades, we can kiss our independence good-bye. They’re going to swallow us up and it’s going to be as if we never existed. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.
‘And in the meantime, I just want to be left alone.’
‘A person cannot shrug off his responsibilities so easily,’ said the King in a soft voice. He seemed neither surprised nor angered at the March Hare’s outburst. ‘I tried it and you can see where it got me.’
‘If I may be so bold, Your Majesty - therein lies the difference between a King and a valet. Affairs of State are no concern of mine.’
The King frowned.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You are not a political creature by any means. I can see that clearly. But you are a Heartsman and technically a Royal Ward. However much I may have neglected my people, I’ve always seen to it that the talkies have been well taken care off. And yet, I’m not even going to try to appeal to your sense of loyalty. Rather, I wish to prove to you just how much of a personal stake you have in the current situation.
‘Let me show you something.’
Opening a drawer, the King brought out a handful of photographs and placed them in a line along the edge of the desk. They were black and white, a series of studies taken at either dawn or dusk. The March Hare recognised Gerbil Town by the peculiarly domed buildings and the stone cross in the Market Place.
Each picture was a variation upon the same theme.