An Uncrowned King Chapter 6 Part 3

“But how?”

“I will lay the case before her, and point out that Caerleon will ruin his cause and jeopardise his crown if he marries her. Then she will refuse him for his own sake.”

“Impossible, milord! Refuse a crown?”

“For his sake, I tell you. That’s what the girl is like. Well, will you leave it to me? If I fail, after fair trial, I give you full leave to break off the match in your own way.”

“I agree, milord, though I cannot believe you will succeed. No woman on earth would decline a crown, to be shared with the man whom, according to you, she loves passionately. But you shall try. By all means, milord, we work together, if you please.”

“I thought so,” laughed Cyril to himself, as M. Drakovics went out.

A little later, he saw from the balcony the O’Malachys’ travelling-carriage coming round to the door, and watched while the family took their places in it. Madame O’Malachy, gracious and graceful as ever, was nodding pleasantly to the landlady as the luggage was put up, and her husband was cracking a joke with the travelled waiter, through whom all communications with the authorities of the inn were obliged to be conducted. Louis, surly and unapproachable as usual, took his seat in the carriage without a word, and Nadia was equally silent as she sat upright by her mother’s side, her face covered with a thick veil, which aroused Cyril’s suspicions instantly.

“She has been crying,” he said. “What a pity her complexion isn’t like her mother’s, for a little powder and paint would put it all right in that case. What Caerleon can see in her I cannot imagine.”

In spite of his antipathy to the O’Malachys, he kept his place on the balcony and waved a farewell to the travellers, watching the carriage as it wound round the curves of the rough mountain road until it was finally out of sight, when he went back into the coffee-room to join Caerleon and M. Drakovics, who were discussing the question of the costume in which the new King was to make the journey to his capital. Evening dress and a tall hat formed M. Drakovics’s idea of the clothes suitable to the occasion; but Wright, who was assisting uninvited at the discussion, and who bore a grudge already against the Premier for inducing Caerleon to remain in Thracia, flatly declined to “make a tomfool” of his master by helping him to don a swallow-tail coat in the daytime. Caerleon himself thought it would be the proper thing to adopt the Thracian national dress, as a delicate compliment to the people; but M. Drakovics objected to this on the ground that the Thracians were expecting an Englishman, and would be disappointed if they found him dressed like themselves.

“Will your Majesty not wear your uniform?” he asked, offering another suggestion in his turn. “That of your Volunteer cavalry, I mean?”

“My Yeomanry uniform?” said Caerleon. “I haven’t got it here. In fact, I should have no right to wear it any longer if I had, for I resigned my commission before I left home, because the expenses connected with the troop were too much for me to meet in my present circumstances.”

“But your uniform’s ’ere, all the same, my lord,” said Wright. “If your lordship remembers, it was sent on with the ’eavy luggage before the troop was decided to be given up, in case there was any grand doin’s while your lordship were at the castle,” and he nodded vaguely in the direction which he imagined to be that of Château Temeszy.

“Oh, well, if you’ve got it, you may as well wear it, Caerleon,” said Cyril. “It’s only a cast-off now, after all, and if Ceylon coolies and African chiefs are allowed to sport discarded British uniforms, I don’t see why the King of Thracia shouldn’t.”

“Your comparisons are not exactly flattering to Thracia,” said Caerleon, “and I don’t think it’s quite the thing to sport the old uniform under the circumstances. Ordinary riding-togs are the best thing for a long ride like this, and if it’s absolutely necessary, one can add a top hat and a black coat before entering Bellaviste;” and to this decision he adhered, in spite of the Premier’s remonstrances and of Cyril’s jeers.

It had been arranged that the King and his companions were to ride the greater part of the way to Bellaviste, escorted by the Thracians who had accompanied M. Drakovics, and most of whom had brought horses with them; for although a railway from the frontier to the capital was nearly completed, it had not yet been opened for passenger traffic. It was a picturesque procession which wound down the mountain-side, headed by Caerleon and M. Drakovics; but when the level ground was reached the symmetry of the march was much disturbed, for the younger men among the Thracians broke the line out of pure gladness, racing their horses against one another, and riding hither and thither on either side of the main body. Whenever a village was reached, the inhabitants were summoned to the church by the ringing of the bell, and Caerleon, standing on the steps, was proclaimed king by M. Drakovics. Everywhere the people poured forth in delight to meet the party, bringing offerings of bread and salt, which were to be touched by the King and afterwards consumed by the givers.