Royal Trappings

Written By: Martin Taulbut

It was almost nine when Linda stepped off the bus at Holyrood. Shivering, she buttoned up her blue serge jacket and strode to the studded wooden gates. 

Roberta was waiting for Linda by the entrance, wearing her curly red hair down. Under Roberta’s overcoat, her dark-green evening dress sparkled. The faint scent of lilacs surrounded her. She held out a security tag with a photo of Linda’s oval, bespectacled face. 

“Thanks for coming in,” said Roberta.

Linda took her badge. “No problem. How’s Ted?”

 Roberta’s face darkened. “Not well. So conscientious! He insisted he had to stay.”  

“That’s a real shame,” said Linda. 

She rather liked Ted. His cheery morning greeting “All reet pet?” delivered in his Geordie accent, soothed her. 

Roberta’s heels clicked on the cobbles as they crossed the courtyard, past the fountain. They passed beneath a giant stag’s head mounted on the archway above the entrance and entered the darkened palace corridors.

“You’re day shift, aren’t you?” said Roberta.

“That’s right,” said Linda. “Gift shop.” 

“Well, there’s a few…uh…things you should know about covering nights,” said Roberta. “We’ve had guards get skittish before.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Strange noises.” Roberta laughed. “Even seeing things, if you can believe that!”

“Things?”

“Oh, ghost stories. Bald Agnes? You’ll have heard about her from the guides?”

“Nope,” said Linda. “Bald? Why was she bald?”

“They accused her of being a witch. Of plotting to kill King James the First. To find the devil’s mark, they stripped her and shaved her from head to toe. After she confessed, they strangled her.”

That’s horrible.

“They say her ghost wanders the halls. Cursing her tormenters.” Roberta smirked. “But I can see you’re a sensible girl.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Now they were in the Great Gallery, lined with portraits showing the lineage all the way back to Robert II. Brutal warlords near the entrance gave way to stern Patricians, who in turn devolved into soft-looking aristocrats. As the portraits continued along the hall, the consequences of inbreeding became ever more pronounced. Monarchs’ eyes bulged, their mouths slackened, their jaws grew elongated like crocodiles. Oil likenesses gave way to grainy monochrome photographs. Here there were more gaps between the images, leaving only vacant hooks. There were rumours about the subjects of those vanished portraits. Exiled to barred rooms at Tamarisk House or Llandovery.

“Does Francis ever use this place?” asked Linda.

Roberta looked away, flustered. “King Francis? I…. I’m not sure. He’s…not been himself...Uh…Here we are.”

The security office was tiny, barely larger than a fitted wardrobe. A bank of CCTV monitors occupied one wall, with a swivel chair facing them. Controls underneath, including a digital keypad with an LED bulb above it. A grilled windowpane on the third wall. On the ledge sat Ted’s small potted cactus and his enamel mug bearing the legend World’s Best Grandad. 

“The late King Walter had this system installed in the ’nineties,” said Roberta. “Alarms on all the exterior doors and windows, cameras in every room.”

She passed Linda a slip of paper. “The alarm code. The late King was a stickler for tradition.”  

Yeah, that’s why he married his first cousin, thought Linda. 

“You’ll be all right then?” said Roberta. “You’re really helping…us out of a hole here.”

“No problem.” 

As if I had a choice. Refusing a shift would trigger suspension of her Citizens Basic Income. 

“Well, thanks again.” Roberta was already leaving. “I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning.”

**

At midnight, Linda took a break. She made herself a hot chocolate and pulled the latest copy of Swift’s Skewer from her bag. Prime Minister Greenlaw was denying allegations of money laundering on Guna Yala. The punk band, Mockingbird, had appealed the Lord High Chancellor’s censorship of their single, Regal Dementia…

Bang. Bang.

What was that?

Bang. Bang.

It echoed through the stone passageways and bounced off the wooden panelling. More insistent this time. 

Leaning forward, Linda cycled through the images on her CCTV screens. No-one in the gardens. No-one in the courtyard, lurking behind the columns or the fountain. The noise was coming from inside the palace. Absurd. Someone left behind, a tourist who’d taken a wrong turn and fallen asleep? But you’d have to be daft-

Wait. Something…someone on the periphery of the screen. 

Then gone. 

Linda stood up, heart rate increasing. Picking up the master keys, and her torch, she made her way through the palace rooms.

She reached the Audience chamber. Mahogany paneling made the gloomy space darker still. Display cases like shrunken sarcophagi showed off the sacred relics of the dynasty. A lock of Mary Stuart’s hair, secure in a golden oystershell. An illuminated Bible, property of the same matriarch. The heart-shaped Darnley locket, with a fat sapphire at its heart. More pictures here, too.

It’s a cult.

Above one of the cases was a sketch, ink on parchment, behind glass. It showed a knot of women in Tudor dress, gathering against a backdrop of crosses and tombstones. A black-skinned de’il with horns, wings and cloven hooves, laughed as they approached. Linda drew closer. Parchments covered in script that started neat, then deteriorated into a shaky scrawl. A plaque read: Confessions of Agnes Sampson.

White text on a black background read:

The Life and Death of Agnes Sampson

A resident of Midlothian, Agnes Sampson acquired a reputation as the “Wyse Wyfe of Keyth”. She prescribed mysterious powders to ease childbirth pain and eggs in vinegar to cure ailments. Geillis Duncan, maidservant to deputy bailiff David Sefton, accused Sampson of witchcraft.

Agnes’s confession includes her claims that she and her coven were able to control the weather. By throwing a dead cat into the sea, they raised a “contrary wind” that nearly claimed the life of King James.

On a raised dais beside the case was a curved iron frame, with a spiked metal bit where the wearer’s mouth would fit. Linda felt queasy.

Torture, including the use of thumbscrews and the scold’s bridle…

Bang.

It was coming from the corner of the room.

Here was a stout door, bolted from the outside. It led to the corner turret. Private - No Admittance. A cry, something closer to a yelp. 

She slid the bolts and pulled the door ajar, revealing the stairwell beyond. The banging grew louder. It was coming from the floor above. And something else, no, someone…someone crying. Weighing the torch in her hand, Linda began to ascend the steps. When she reached the top, a second door, also barred, confronted her. The thumping was insistent now. She gripped the keys tighter.

 “Hello?”

The banging stopped. No cameras here. 

“Please,” a shrill voice called. “Please?”

“I’m opening the door,” said Linda. 

She slid the latch and pushed. The light from her torch revealed a small, circular room. In the middle of the room was an iron bedstead. Kneeling by the bed was a small figure in a hooded cloak. As the torch-beam illuminated them, they whimpered. 

“I can’t see you,” she said. “Put your hood down.”

The figure lowered their cowl. 

Before her was a man of about thirty-five, with a long, equine face, his wrist secured to the bedframe by a loop of rope. His high, pale forehead gave way to a balding crown framed by russet hair and decorated by a coo’s lick. A hint of an underbite, with puffy lips. His jutting chin, softened by a neatly trimmed goatee beard and rust-coloured moustache.

Every pound note in the Isles bore his likeness. And he was on the front cover of her edition of the Skewer. The Government’s affairs are above reproach, Your Majesty, PM Greenlaw said. King Francis the Second’s bubble read: Even I’m no’ radio rental enough to swallow that pal. 

“They, uh, said you weren’t very well,’ she offered.

Francis the Second, King of Great Britain and its Dominions, scrutinised her. He indicated a paper plate of sandwiches, wrapped in cellophane, a few feet from the bed. 

“I tricked ’em,” they giggled. “Frankie’s a loony. But I tricked ’em! Didn’t eat my supper. Only-”

She went to the bed and knelt, laying her torch and keys aside. Close up, his cloak was an ordinary dressing gown. Beneath that he wore a thin, plain cotton T-shirt, and a pair of jogging bottoms. On his feet, pointed blue slippers. No socks.

She won her struggle with the knot. 

Francis stood up, flexing his wrist. He stopped. “What’s your name?”

“Linda,” she said. ‘Linda Mooney.”

“Mooney. Moon-eh? Moon-a!” laughed Francis. “I suppose you get that a lot, eh?”

He stopped, looking oddly vulnerable for a moment. Then seemed to shake himself into action.

“Let’s retire, shall we?” said Francis. “Come on, Linda Mooney.”

He limped from the room. Linda followed him down the spiral stairs, into the Audience Chamber. There was something wrong with his gait, Linda realised, a kind of lop-sided shamble. Dim memories of her primary school days stirred. A young Prince Francis, wheeled out by King Walter and Queen Beatrice. An emblem, to raise money for all the boys and girls who needed surgery but didn’t have access to Royal physicians. 

They made their way through to the main drawing room. He was at home here, in the vast and chintzy room with its chandeliers and plaster roses. The King lifted the red rope barrier, padded to one of the stuffed couches beside the fireplace and sat down. 

The monarch nodded at a tapestry on the far wall, grinning. The tapestry showed medieval pikemen ambushing a unicorn in a forest. The perspectives were all wrong. She thought of Douglas and his colouring books. 

“And you Scotch have it as your national symbol! A fictional animal!” he said. “Ghillie Arthur, he took me hunting as a boy. Before Mama sent him away.”

“Uh. Sure,” said Linda. “Listen, I, eh, I’ve kind of got to get on…”

“I’m hungry,” Francis announced. “Nothing lavish. Soup? What’s that curry soup, MuggleTony?”

“Mulligatawny?” said Linda.

“That’s it! Silly billy, silly Frankie! If you could russle me up some of that, I’d be eternally…,” said the King. 

His cheerful mood faded, as he stared into space for a moment. 

Linda broke the silence. “I’ve no soup. Will hot chocolate do?”

“Yummy!” said Francis.

She returned to her cubby-hole. Here was Ted’s mug, that would do. She sniffed. The mug gave off a sour, acrid tang. Ugh. Inside it were two pickled eggs. She tipped them out into the wastepaper bin. Refilling the mug with steaming chocolate, Linda carried it back to the drawing room.

Francis gulped it down. When he finished, he licked his lips and wiped the lower portion of his face with his sleeve. As he did so, his cloak fell open for a moment, and Linda saw a pocket cut into the inner lining of his robe. The material bulged slightly. 

Francis gave her a crafty look.

“You want to see this?” he said. “I stole it from them.” 

Setting his mug down on the carpet, King Francis reached into his pocket and took out a latex mask. He pulled it over his face, fumbling to secure it in place with elasticated straps. Then he turned to Linda. 

Sold by the score from kiosks along the Royal Mile, alongside stuffed Nessies and other tat. The mask was long enough to fit a mule. Its lower half terminated in a brutish jaw, while its upper gave way to a Neanderthal brow. A few crooked yellow teeth and the tip of a swollen purple tongue stuck out from between fat, slug-like lips. Eyeballs, formed from ping-pong balls cut in half, bulged from their sockets. Narrow slits cut into the painted pupils allowed the wearer some limited vision. A few pathetic shocks of dayglo orange synthetic fur burst over jug-ears. A devilish mess of ersatz hair, of a similar hue, colonised its upper lip and chin.

He giggled again, his voice muffled by the mask. “Time to play! Cache-cache! You count first!” 

“Hold on, I-”

He darted past her, into the corridor. His soles slip-slapped on stone. 

Linda called after him. “Hey!”

Shrill giggles echoed through the place. Perturbed, Linda grabbed her torch and retraced her steps. 

I’ll give him bloody cache-cache. 

In the next room, bulging red and gold drapes guarded the four corners of a squat four-poster bed. If someone pulled their legs up tight, that would be enough space to hide underneath. Against the far wall stood a Chinese dressing screen over six feet high, split into five panels.

She tried the bed first. Crouching, Linda shone her torch underneath the bed, the beam dancing into the corners. There was nobody there. 

Straightening up, she grabbed the nearest curtain tassle, yanked it open to reveal…

Nothing but the dark column of the bedpost beneath. 

Now for the dressing screen. She approached it carefully. A neat border of pink blossoms framed its dark-brown lacquered wooden edges. The tips of a pair of blue slippers were visible through the gap at the bottom of the screen. 

Linda jumped around to the side. “Ah! Huh.”

He’d abandoned his slippers here. 

She pursed her lips. Oh right, so that’s how it is, yeah? 

Thump.

It came from the Gallery. She tip-toed through and crossed to the window. There on the floor was the ‘bloodstain’ where they murdered Darnley, kept fresh for the tourists. She lowered the torch beam, exposing a neat, deep shadow between the boards. Movement. She smiled, knelt, and jemmied the board loose.

The King peered up at her from the hole, blinking, shielding his eyes as she shone the torch into his sanctuary. He was still wearing that stupid mask.

“Found you,” she said.

Francis scrambled out, hauling himself into the Audience chamber proper. 

He…was taller? More muscular? 

In his gloved right hand, a thin tool, with an efficient looking blade at one end. 

“Where’s Ted?” a gruff, muffled Geordie voice demanded. 

“The infirmary…” Linda managed. “Heart attack.”

“’Kin ’ell…me…poor bastard,” murmured the intruder. He pulled a leather case from the hole. His posture stiffened again. “Reet.” 

“We’re on camera…And there’s alarms, you–” she managed.

“Yee gan dee us donkey wark. Hawa.”

She was shaking. Fear. More tangible than with Francis. And anger, too. Anger at herself. So stupid to let her guard down, ha, she was the guard! 

They reached the security room. The masked man gestured at the monitors with his tool.

“Tonight’s footage,” he said. Noticing her hesitation, he lowered the blade. “I’m neet ganin tuh hurt yee lass. I’m just heor for…well, nivvor yee mind. Shud be abyeut aaiyt a’clock.” 

Eight pm. Shift changeover. She switched the screens to playback and rewound the tapes. The night unfolded. Ted’s arrival. The last of the tourists milling about in the palace hallway. Ted reaching the security room, chatting away to the day guard, before swapping places. The day security guard moving away, helping Roberta to shoo the crowds out of the building. A masked figure in dark clothing, carrying a leather bag, slipping along the corridors. Finding the cubby hole in the Gallery and sliding inside, pulling the hatch over his head.

“You and Ted were in cahoots,” said Linda. “What were you going to do?”

“Torn off the cameras, torn off the elarms. I’d tie him up, Yee neeo. Tek the tapes.”

“Then what?”

“Yiv seen the loot heor, lass.” He spat. “The fancy brooch. The Bible. Evon the lock iv hair. Warth a shitload.” He paused. “Wur could still dae that, wur dae yew-’

“And then what?” snapped Linda. She shook her head. “You think they wouldn’t trace it?”

The masked man sagged. “…Ted said it wud be easy, lass. They’ve got see mich. An’ wur left with fuckaal, neet a pot tuh piss in.”

“Aye,” agreed Linda.

Ten past eight. Ted takes a sip from his mug. Winces. Looks over his shoulder. Clutches at his left arm. Falls. 

Hold on, just for a second – 

a pale white figure, with their back to the camera. The knots of their spinal column and collar bone visible through their skin  

–  Roberta, coming back to say good night. Discovering Ted. Making the call.

The masked man’s posture stiffened again. “Dee the cameras. An’ the alarms, lass.”

“Hold on, didn’t...”

 “Nar na, don’t mess abyeut.. Hurry up neeo.”

Linda flipped the switches on the console. Leaning forward, she punched in the code to de-activate the alarm. The red LED bulbs died.

Behind them, King Francis crept across the floor, wielding a brass candlestick. The King licked his lips. He’d nearly reached the intruder. The distorted, faint image of the two men, reflected in the flat sable of the CCTV screens. Francis raised his improvised weapon… 

The masked man turned, raising his hands instinctively to protect himself. The candlestick thudded against his gloved hand holding the cutting tool. Cursing, the intruder swung his leather bag. Francis stumbled, his face crumpling in pain. The candelabra clanged to the floor. 

The intruder was pressing the glass cutter to the monarch’s throat.

“Drop it, lass,” he said. “Divvent be a hero, neeo.”

Reluctantly, Linda discarded the candle holder.

“Neeo, let’s just aaal calm doon,” barked the masked man. “Wheor weor yee hidin,’ doylem? Eh?”

“In the corner tower,” blurted out Linda. “They were holding him-”

“Is that reet? Mebbies wuh shud gan thor neeo. See if thor's anyone else hangin’ abyeut. C’mon. Yee leed the wa, lass.”

He frog-marched them to the turret and they ascended the helical steps to Francis’s quarters. The masked man scanned the round chamber. Motioning at the bed, he ordered Linda to sit down. 

He released Francis from his headlock and shoved him into Linda.

“Yee an' aaal,” he demanded. “That’s it. Lass, tie him up leek befawa.”

She set to work, threading the ropes around Francis’s wrists, pulling the knots tight. 

Meanwhile the masked man set his case on the tower floor, unbuckled it, and produced a set of handcuffs. Once Linda finished, the intruder tossed the restraints in front of her.

“Cuff yersel’ tuh the fryem,” he said. “Goan.”

“You don’t have to do this, there’s a bolt-” protested Linda. 

“The wa ah see it, I’m deeyuhn yee a favoor,” said the masked man. “It’s awful suspicious otherwise, eh?”

She clicked the cuffs around her wrists, securing them to the metal frame. Only now did their captor relax a little. He retrieved the uneaten plate of sandwiches from near to Francis’s makeshift bed. He rolled the mask up over his chin and started to stuff the dainty triangles into his mouth.

“I’m clammin,” he admitted, still chewing. “Been doon that hole fo’ hoors.”

“Shouldn’t be eating those,” hissed Francis. “’S’not ’llowed.” 

“Let him,” Linda said.

“That’s reet.” The intruder seemed surprised. “Ye nur poor auld Ted? He used tae wark fo’ the Royal Bank iv Darien, til the’ let him gan. And that wud’ve been aaal reet, he’s got this gig, but then aaal those…allegations iv money laundering kick off.” He finished the sandwiches and discarded the paper plate. “Pensions frozen…. while they…investigate. How…how is that…is that fair?” 

The masked man stopped. He took a few faltering steps. 

He staggered to the top of the spiral staircase. “…I’ve got tuh…”

Then he stumbled, disappearing down the stairs, tumbling out of sight. Then silence. 

Linda tried not to think about it. Instead, she set to work on Francis’s bonds, grunting as she undid the knots. 

Francis clapped his hands in glee. “Welldone, welldone!”

“See if you can find the keys to the handcuffs on him,” she said. “Take the torch.”

“What fun!” said Francis.

He hobbled to the stairwell. His voice echoed in the turret. “Here…no…here, ah.”

There was a loud crack of metal on stone. Must’ve dropped the torch. A few moments later, he shuffled back into the tower room and passed her the handcuff keys. After freeing herself, Linda followed Francis down the winding stairs. 

The intruder was lying prone on the floor of the stairwell. Blood seeped from his skull. The rubber mask had slipped from his face. He was much older than she’d thought. Pushing sixty, his face creased and jowly, with a sprinkling of liver spots and a shock of grey hair. 

Linda crouched beside him. No pulse. Her stomach churned. 

There were bloodstains on the head of the torch.

“We have to call the police,” she said. 

Francis shook his head. “No. No. Mustn’t do that, Linda Mooney. Francis the looney! Or Moon-ey the looney!”

“What…” she managed. Who would believe her? And what would happen to Douglas? “What, then?” 

“I know a place,” said Francis. He looked pleased with himself. “Nobody would ever look.”

Together, torchlight illuminating their path, they carried the corpse through the palace. They made their way into the gardens, crunching along the gravel to the Abbey. And there was a low stone tomb, lonely in the roofless husk of the chapel. Prising the lid, they eased his remains inside the casket, dumping his blade inside. Finally, they scraped the stone lid across the edges of the casket, until it slotted into place.

“Let’s go inside," said Francis.

Linda followed him, her mind numb. 

Would she ever be clean again?

Francis re-settled himself on the fireside couch.

“Well done, Linda Mooney,” said Francis. “Here…I think…yes…”

A rustle from the fireplace. A creak from the ancient plumbing. 

She shivered. Had it got colder suddenly? 

From the pocket of his dressing gown, he pulled out a beige-coloured oyster purse. Popping the clasp, he produced a small, thin gold coin and held it up. On its face, an outline of the Isthmus of Panama, the dates 1699-1999 engraved beneath the image. Francis flipped it over. There was the profile of his father, old King Walter, ringed by the family motto. Nemo me impune lacessit. Francis shoved the coin back into the pouch, fastened its clasp and held it out to Linda.

She took the royal purse, feeling its heft as her fingers closed around it.

Francis yawned.

“I’m tired now, Linda Mooney. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire for little Francis. You won’t tell on me, will you, mmm?”  

“I won’t tell.” Her words lifeless.

“Good, good, I-” 

“Cache-cache, Frankie.”

Francis looked startled. “What was that? What did you say? 

“I didn’t say….”

He fell to his knees, staring past Linda. “No! I’ve been good Mama! It was an accident!”

Reflected in the mirror above the fireplace, a slight woman in late middle-age, her head shaven. Naked, a patchwork of scar tissue and seared brandings ruining her flesh. Smooth and hairless all over, including her scalp. A crude iron bridle clamped over her lips. 

“Cache-cache,” gurgled their visitor.

Bald Agnes had returned.

Martin Taulbut lives in Dumbarton, Scotland, with his wife, their little dog and two cats. A member of the Shut Up and Write! Glasgow Group, his previous short stories have appeared in Psychotrope, Scheherazade, Albedo One, Black Petals, Mycelia, Tales of the Unreal, Archive of the Odd and Wallstrait.