An Uncrowned King Chapter 5 Part 2

On the plea of extreme fatigue, Caerleon and Cyril excused themselves to their guest as early as was possible with due regard for politeness, and prepared to consider the situation in concert. Leaning out of the window of Caerleon’s room, with the watch-fires of the expectant Thracians starring the mountain-slopes on every hand, they discussed the subject in all its bearings. As was generally the case on such occasions, Cyril did most of the talking, and he summed up his arguments very concisely before they separated for the night.

“The question is just this, Caerleon: have you backbone enough to be a Thracian for the future, instead of an Englishman? That’s what it will come to, you know. There will be the most awful row at home, and we may find ourselves outlawed, or declared guilty of high treason, or I don’t know what. So long as we keep to Thracian soil, we shall be all right, if we can only manage to stay there; but I suppose if we ventured into any British possession they might put us in prison and keep us there out of harm’s way. Scythia is bound to make a fuss, and to send the strongest possible diplomatic representations to St James’s about us even if she doesn’t go to war, and you must make up your mind to disregard appeals and commands, from whomsoever they may come, and public opinion too. You won’t any longer be a British peer, poor, perhaps, but universally looked up to—but an adventurer,—a filibuster, in fact. That’s the bad side of it. On the other hand, you consider that your country has treated you pretty shabbily, and holds out no particular prospects to you in your present circumstances. Forfar and the Duke never did much for you either, and I don’t see that you need refuse such an offer as this just to save them from diplomatic complications. Of course, if the worst came to the worst, you might sacrifice yourself, and abdicate magnanimously in order to prevent a European war, but I don’t think it will get as far as that. Scythia will brag and bluster—perhaps try to put you out of the way, but that is our private affair. And in Thracia you have just the field you have always wanted for your administrative and philanthropic talents. From what Drakovics says, they seem to have a fairly good army, but very little else. You will have to make the nation. Oh, there’s no question as to which is the biggest thing to do. As King of Thracia, in the people’s present state of mind, your opportunities would be limitless.”

“And that is what one ought to think of,” said Caerleon, recalling Nadia’s words. “Cyril, old man, I’ll take it.”

“Good for you, old chap,” returned Cyril. “I say, I suppose I shall have to call you ‘your Majesty’ now—in public, that is. Behind the scenes, the augurs may wink as they please. Well, I bag the post of your private secretary, at any rate. That will enable me to give your Majesty a good wigging when I think it called for, and to keep you from getting into trouble. Well, now that your royal mind is made up, I’m off. Ta, ta.”

When the two young men entered the coffee-room in the morning, M. Drakovics advanced to meet them, far too anxious as to the result of their conference to let the matter rest until after breakfast, as Caerleon had intended. The Premier’s face was worn and haggard with anxiety, and his voice shook as he asked—

“May I inquire whether your Majesty has decided what course you will take?”

“Yes,” said Caerleon. “I have made up my mind to accept the crown.”

He had no time to say more, for, to his horror and Cyril’s delight, M. Drakovics fell at his feet and covered his hands with kisses, while he tried in vain to induce him to rise. Cyril recovered himself first.

“Perhaps we might postpone any further raptures until after breakfast,” he suggested, mildly. “Even kings have appetites,—their brothers certainly have.”

“One moment!” cried M. Drakovics, rising and going towards the window. “Your majesty cannot tell what a load you have taken from my heart,” he added, huskily, turning again to Caerleon. “I am satisfied now as to the future of my country. But I must tell the people. They have been as anxious as myself, and they will rejoice as I do.”

He stepped out on the balcony, and addressed the crowd of Thracians, who had again gathered in front of the house. A tremendous shout burst from them when he had finished speaking. Turning round with blazing eyes he beckoned to Caerleon.

“Show yourself to your people, your Majesty. Speak a few words to them—I will interpret—and they will love you for ever.”