An Uncrowned King Chapter 6 Part 2

“Oh, my friend, why were you not born a Thracian?” cried M. Drakovics, seizing Cyril in his arms, and imprinting a fervent kiss on each of his cheeks. “Your plan is almost perfect: it has only one drawback—that it is impossible. Every King of Thracia must be crowned in the chapel of St Peter at Bellaviste. It is a small, rude building, standing in the quadrangle of the palace, and in it Alexander Franza, first of the name—the patriot king—saw a vision of St Peter, the night before the great battle in which he burst the Roumi yoke. No other coronation would be valid in the opinion of the people, nor can the crown be legally removed from the chapel. It is kept in a great chest built into the wall, of which I hold one key, the Metropolitan another, and the king the third. I have it now to deliver to his Majesty, but none of the keys will open the box without the other two. Your brother cannot be crowned until we reach Bellaviste, for no make-shift crown would be tolerated by the Thracians.”

“It is an enormous pity,” said Cyril. “Time is everything to us just now. Why not disregard the superstition of the people, and spring on them a king ready crowned, and safe on his throne?”

“Ah, you do not know my countrymen,” said M. Drakovics, sorrowfully. “Such a thing would be an outrage, a defiance of their religious feelings. No, we must wait until we reach Bellaviste; but I will take your advice as to the protests from the Powers. What is your feeling about Scythia?”

“Send the same note to her as to the other Powers; but let it be well understood privately that if she makes one hostile movement, you are prepared to contest every inch of ground, and will at the same moment throw yourself upon the protection of Pannonia, who will be only too ready to interfere if there is any likelihood of war in the Balkans, and will be supported by her allies. Meanwhile, see that your army is ready to mobilise at the shortest notice, and look out for Scythian spies.”

“But that is my very point!” cried M. Drakovics. “These O’Malachys are Scythian spies, all of them. That is one imperative reason for their not being allowed to approach Bellaviste, and the other is that Madame O’Malachy is anxious to entrap the King into marrying her daughter.”

“Let us take the charges one at a time,” said Cyril, calmly. “The O’Malachy and his wife are spies—there is no doubt of that—but for that very reason I would not only welcome them to Bellaviste, but I would find room for them in the palace itself, if I could.”

“You are joking!” said M. Drakovics, in astonishment.

“Not at all, I assure you. Think a moment. The more completely we can treat the O’Malachy family as my brother’s guests, the better we can have them under observation. There is such a thing as a censorship even of private letters and telegrams in disturbed times, I believe; and it would be easier to work it with people we knew, and on whom we kept a constant watch, than with obscure persons whose doings might escape our attention. Again, expelled from Thracia, which is what I suppose you would suggest, the O’Malachys would linger just across the frontier, setting in motion a whole horde of spies, all of whom we could not hope to discover, while we could never be sure that they themselves had not re-entered the kingdom in some disguise. It certainly seems a bold thing to admit them into the very heart of our defences, but they would be clever if they managed to see more than they were meant to see.”

“But about Mademoiselle?” asked M. Drakovics, anxiously. “The King cannot marry her. He must form an alliance which will strengthen his throne.”

“You are right,—he must. But did you intend to tell him so? I know Caerleon a good deal better than you do, and you may take my word for it that as soon as you had finished your remarks he would go straight to Miss O’Malachy and lay the crown at her feet. So far as he is concerned, you must let the matter take its course. Nothing can be said to him.”

“But how, then, would you prevent it?” cried M. Drakovics. “Is the girl to be kidnapped and carried off?”

“My good sir—no! Do you want all Europe in a ferment, and Caerleon throwing up the kingdom to go and look for her? The O’Malachy and his wife would make the finest political capital possible out of such a tale. No; we must act merely by means of moral suasion, you and I and Miss O’Malachy.”

“Miss O’Malachy? The girl?” gasped M. Drakovics.

“Exactly—the young lady. You are a very clever man, M. Drakovics, but you have not had the advantage of spending a year in the British Embassy at Pavelsburg, and making an exhaustive study of Scythian society ladies. I know well enough the Cercle Evangélique in which Miss O’Malachy was brought up—not that it is in favour in high quarters, quite the contrary; but I was interested in it out of curiosity. Its members may be called fanatics—they certainly are not worldly-wise—and I am pretty sure that Princess Soudaroff has made her god-daughter as great an enthusiast as she is herself. Now you will see why I am ready to lay aside in her case the usual rule of considering every one a knave until he or she is proved otherwise, and why I expect her to do our business for us.”