Three Kings. Группа авторов

      That night, the killings of the crows continued. There wasn’t so much as a word spoken of it on the news channels, even though now, adults were joining in. Gunshots rang out and even in the nearest barracks she felt crows die at the hands of common soldiers, while officers turned a blind eye.

      And that’s when the goddess understood.

      Like any dying organism, the city stirred its antibodies to free itself of the disease. It knew, perhaps only through the shared subconscious of its inhabitants, who she was, what she was. Perhaps the time had come to spread her wings. To bring some other city to its knees so that the land might drink the blood of its heroes.

      On the news, an item about farm subsidies was brought to a sudden halt.

      ‘We apologize to viewers for the interruption, but we’re hearing that Windsor Castle will be making an announcement in the next five minutes or so. The programme will stay on the air, but it looks as if the sad news we’ve been expecting about the Queen is about to be confirmed. If so, it truly is the end of an era. An unprecedented time of peace and prosperity for mainland Britain for which she deserves some of the credit …’

      Badb stayed up watching for hours. ‘Unprecedented peace and prosperity,’ she thought. ‘Fascinating.’

      ‘And what about the succession?’ said one royal correspondent to another.

      ‘Frankly, the polling prefers Richard by a wide margin. His opinions are less … troubling.’

      ‘Quite!’

      ‘But just imagine the chaos if he were to try for the throne!’

      Imagine the chaos. Unprecedented peace.

      Badb left that very night.

      ST PAUL’S CATHEDRAL WAS packed with worshippers – correction, make that ‘gawkers’, Noel thought. There were some obvious tourists among the crowd but it seemed to be predominately locals filling the chairs. The boys in the choir were doing their best to draw attention away from the family in the front pew, as were the various participants leading the congregation in prayer, and everyone was failing utterly.

      This was the first opportunity for people to see their new king and his young bride-to-be and they were taking full advantage. Noel studied the man: his bald pate shining in the light through one of the transept windows, the black mourning armband wrinkling the material of his suit jacket. In place of his now-divorced, rather horse-faced wife of forty-three years sat a young woman in a chic little hat with a net veil. Her family was also present, but the whole thing was grotesque. She could have been his granddaughter.

      Henry’s only son, Edward, had been killed sixteen years ago while serving in one of those periodic conflicts that flared up in British colonies, and Edward’s wife had lost her baby, leaving only Henry’s other child, the royal daughter, Gloriana. But she had married a Norwegian prince and agreed to be removed from the succession. It amused Noel to think he had been part of the reason for that marriage. He stifled a laugh.

      Gloriana was not present on this cold, grey Sunday but Noel assumed she would attend the funeral. As for Henry, Noel could not fathom why he hadn’t remained at Windsor and attended services at St George’s chapel rather than returning to London. Maybe he wanted to bask in the moment and show off his bride. Christ knows he’s waited long enough for the crown, but Richard …

      Noel stole a glance across the aisle where Richard, Duke of York, sat stony-faced with Diana and their brood. Despite the rumours about his proclivities, Richard had sired an outrageous number of kids. Although based on some of the hair colours it was questionable if all of them were his.

      The prayer of preparation began and Noel found his memory of the words returning. ‘Almighty God to whom all hearts are open, all desires known …’ Please let me keep my son. ‘And from whom no secrets are hidden …’ Please don’t let him ever find out what kind of man I really am. ‘Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

      Despite himself, the music and language was having an effect even though his belief in any sort of divine, guiding and loving god had vanished years ago. Yet how quickly one returned to a hope that entreaties to an imaginary friend in the sky could actually help. He glanced down at Jasper, who sat with rapt attention listening to the music. The boy’s fingers were playing with the light flowing through the stained-glass windows, weaving the different colours into a fanciful design. Noel laid a hand over Jasper’s and leaned in to whisper. ‘Not in here. There’s a lot of security.’ He nodded towards the various agents positioned around the church, and the three Silver Helix agents. ‘They might view what you’re doing as a threat.’

      The boy gave a small gasp and released his construct. It shattered into slivers of light that flew in all directions. Rory Campbell, known to the world as Archimedes, who was up in the Whispering Gallery, stiffened and peered down. Noel caught his eye and gave him a brief salute. The ace gave him a dirty look but relaxed.

      The service continued with prayers and hymns, readings and a sermon. Noel shifted a bit on the hard pew, attempting to ease the ache in his backside. The things I do to prove I’m a fit parent, he thought. At last it was time for the Holy Eucharist. The royals received communion first and their security detail closed in to block access and even much of a view of the family from the passing worshippers.

      Noel, hand on Jasper’s back, guided him forward. All six foot six of Ranjit Singh blocked the entry into the royal pew, his turban adding to his towering presence. He had been Noel’s firearms instructor when he had been recruited into the intelligence service, and the Lion had become the head of the Silver Helix after Flint’s conviction for war crimes. Noel gave him a nod as they passed and received a glare in return.

      He and Jasper knelt at the altar rail as the Bishop of London, assisted by a pair of priests (no mere altar boys for a bishop), made his way down the line dispensing the host. The dry wafer caught in the back of Noel’s throat, which caused him to take a rather large sip from the chalice being offered by the trailing priest. That earned him another frown. Nobody seemed to be happy with him today. The thought amused him.

      Once back in their seats there was more singing and more praying and then blessedly, mercifully it was over. There was a brief remonstration with Henry, the gestures from the agents – both nat and wild card – indicating that they