The Wild Princess

Fifty



“Ditch the bloody duster,” John Brown shouted. The Scot tramped to the rear of the line of carriages in his Highland tartans. He scowled up at Byrne on the big roan Arabian he’d ordered up on the sly for the American from the queen’s stable. “HRM peeks out her carriage window and sees that thing, she’ll be havin’ both our hides.”

Byrne laughed but suspected Brown was right. He’d stand out like a cabbage in a rose garden in the leather coat that had become his trademark all about London. Around him, on horseback or foot, ranged the queen’s guard in their brilliant crimson jackets and high-topped fur helmets. As the June sun was unusually strong that day, promising even more heat by the time the procession circled through London to Westminster Abbey, he was already sweating. Relieving himself of a layer would be a pleasure. Aside from that, it would make the Colt more easily accessible.

Byrne dismounted, removed his coat, rolled it into a neat cylinder, and strapped it down at the back of his saddle like a bedroll. His white cotton shirt, damp and blowsy now, would dry out in the warm air soon enough. He’d still be conspicuous among the panoply of vivid uniforms and glinting military decorations, but at least he wasn’t a marked man as far as the queen was concerned. With reluctance, he removed the Stetson and tucked it in with the coat. Another tip-off out of the way.

Brown stood beside the roan, its bridle in one hand, his other splayed across the horse’s strong neck. He waited while Byrne mounted up again, studying the line of carriages, all the way to the very front of the procession and the modest ebony brougham that would carry the queen in as much comfort as possible. Everyone was in place, in carriage or on horseback, except for Victoria, who hadn’t yet emerged from the palace.

Byrne looked down from his saddle at the bearded, weather-worn face of the big Scot with something strangely close to fondness. “You’ve done all you can, John. Scotland Yard, the army, Victoria’s own Hussars, the constables brought in from the countryside—it should be enough. The parade route has been searched, the church is secured.”

“And we’ve found nothing,” Brown grumbled.

“True.”

“That’s what worries me, laddie. You say they stored a cart load of powder. Where the bloody hell did it all go?”

Byrne shrugged. “It’s possible the Fenians have determined to wait, seeing the level of protection for the anniversary. They wouldn’t want to chance wasting their cache on the one day when the government is best prepared for them to strike.”

“I got me a mighty nervous gut tellin’ me you’re wrong.”

“All we can do is keep a wary eye.” But Byrne had that same feeling. As if Big Ben in Mr. Pugin’s famous clock tower was ticking down the minutes before catastrophe. And there was not a damn thing he could do to stop time.

Just yesterday he’d looked up through binoculars at that same tower, wondering if a marksman might use it to snipe at the royal party as they passed beneath it. What he remembered seeing through the magnifying lenses still sent a chill through his body. It wasn’t a man or a weapon perched high above the street. It was the gilt Latin letters engraved beneath the huge opal-glass clock face:



DOMINE SALVAM FAC REGINAM NOSTRAM VICTORIAM PRIMAM. O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First.



Could he? Could Brown, or anyone, keep her safe?

“You’re riding with her then, as planned, in the forward carriage?” Byrne said.

“Doc’s orders, and I’m glad for it.” Brown brushed a fleck of cinder from his kilt. “I’ll be right beside her, some idiot tries anythin’.”

Byrne nodded. It was good the little queen had such a stalwart champion. Byrne held no grudge against Victoria. She believed she was doing what was best for her people, her family, even for Louise—though to his mind she’d gone about it in all the wrong ways.

“There she is,” Brown said.

Byrne looked up to see the queen, dressed in her customary mourning black, appear from the porte cochere in her wheeled garden chair. A flash of red from a ruby brooch on her left shoulder and starched white lace collar brightened the somber effect. Brown took off at a run. He’d lift her out of the chair and into the brougham, and do the same for her at the church, where the Mikado’s sedan chair waited.

Byrne drew a deep breath then let it out, wishing to God he knew what the day would bring. He looked toward the gold-encrusted coronation coach. Anyone watching the procession would assume Victoria was in it. She’d of course acknowledge the crowds of onlookers lining the streets from her smaller carriage, if she felt well enough to do so. But any plans the Fenians already had in mind should be concentrated on the far more elaborate conveyance displaying the obvious Royal Coat of Arms. Only members of the royal family and the guardsmen knew of the last-minute switch.

But this still left Louise and others of her family riding in the coronation coach, and that worried him.

Byrne rode down the line of carriages. The immense coach, encrusted with gold, was third in line from the front, right where Byrne had thought the queen should be for maximum protection. Unfortunately Victoria had pressed her own wishes on the captain of the guard.

“If I’m to ride in what might as well be a pony cart, I’ll at least be up front.”

And so her carriage led the way, just behind the forward contingent of mounted guard, followed by the carriage transporting the Prince of Wales, his wife Princess Alix, and their two sons. Third came the coronation coach, carrying Louise and Lorne, princesses Beatrice and Alice, and Alice’s husband—Louis IV, Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt. Other members of the royal family followed behind in lesser but still elegant conveyances. Disraeli and Gladstone each had been invited to ride in the procession but had declined, choosing instead to be seated in the church to await the queen’s arrival.

He made one last ride, quickly, up and down the line, looking for anything out of the ordinary, any clue that a carriage or harness had been tampered with. If an axle snapped or wheel came off in the middle of the procession, the parade would come to a halt. He figured a stalled carriage made a far easier target than a moving one. As it was, on Brown’s orders they would drive at a faster clip than normal parade pace, even if this meant less comfort for those in the carriages. Faster was safer.

They’d reduced the risks considerably, but would it be enough? Byrne didn’t know.

When he passed the coronation coach, he slowed the Arabian to a walk and glanced inside. Louise was seated at the far window, resting her head back against the cushioned seat, eyes closed. She looked pale and unhappy . . . and breathtakingly beautiful in her white silk gown with peach blossoms tracing the low neckline. Lorne sat beside her, leaning in and talking to her, or rather at her, since she seemed intent on ignoring him and wishing herself elsewhere. The others in the carriage—Princess Alice and her husband, Princess Beatrice—sat with formal stiffness, waiting for the procession to move forward.

He wished he could somehow signal Louise that he was still here, looking after her and her sisters, without risking Lorne seeing him. He didn’t trust the man not to inform the queen he was still around.

Byrne scanned the faces in the crowd outside the palace’s black wrought iron fence, jostling one another to get as close as possible to the main gate through which the carriages would soon emerge. Everyone seemed in a festive mood. Some carried flowers to toss at the queen’s coach. Some had brought baskets of food and jugs of ale to tide them over during the long wait.

He looked for Rhodes among the mob. He didn’t see him. As clever as the man had been at concealing his connection to the Fenians, Byrne hadn’t really expected him to put in an appearance. Not here at the palace. Maybe at a critical position to observe the result of the Fenian assault, if there actually was one. On the other hand, Rhodes might be on the run, suspecting he’d been found out. The police were busy at all ports, checking departing ships for America, Europe, and elsewhere.

Byrne brought his mount up behind the queen’s modest black carriage and surveyed it from an angle that wouldn’t put him in Victoria’s line of sight. The family’s coat of arms was neatly stenciled in gold over the glossy black lacquered doors.

Byrne thought for a moment then rode back a ways to shout at one of the pages stationed at attention along the parade line. “Boy, go tell the carriage master I need a tub of good black axle grease, nice and thick. Fast now!”

The lad gave him a suspicious once-over.

Byrne leaned down from his saddle and tweaked the boy’s ear. “Now, son, orders of the queen’s agent.” Something in Byrne’s dark gaze encouraged motion. The page took off at a run. The Scot would be furious if he saw what he was about to do. And he didn’t dare imagine Victoria’s reaction. But to his mind, that damned crest, though far less obvious than the elaborate carved carbuncle on the gilded coach, still attracted too much attention. Hopefully the carriage master would assume Byrne was trying to correct a sticky wheel.

The captain of the Hussars gave the order to move out. Byrne looked around anxiously for the page. Another few seconds and they’d be out the gates, among the populace, and it would be too late. Someone was bound to see him and raise a ruckus, thinking he was defacing the carriage.

Suddenly the boy appeared, carrying a tin bucket. “Sir?”

“Good lad,” Byrne said. “Now back to your post.”

Byrne sidled his horse up to the left rear wheel of the queen’s carriage. He scooped up a handful of the thick, evil-looking black goo. He leaned down from his saddle and smeared the coat of arms with grease then repeated his cloaking treatment on the other door. The coverage wasn’t complete, but it was good enough to obscure the crowned English lion and Scottish unicorn guarding the royal shield.

He left the pail by the side of the drive and wiped his hand on a post, getting off most of the grease. “Sorry there, fella,” he apologized and completed the job by scrubbing his hand over his mount’s rump. “You’ll get an extra good brushing and oats for your trouble, after this is over.”

The gates opened, and the carriages began to move forward.