Dido and Pa by Joan Aiken Page A

dear sir, that's of course! Of
course
Prince George's erstwhile followers now know on which side their bread is buttered—and honeyed too! I am quite certain that not one of them has the least intention of taking arms against your majesty."
    "Aweel, aweel," said the king. "I am blithe tae hear that news. And now, my dear Battersea, I believe I'll be taking maself off to my ain palace and bed, for I've a lang day tomorrow and a wheen tasks tae perform. I will wish you gude e'en, and thank ye kindly for the fine drap of tea; 'tis a muckle sight better than they make in St. James's Palace. Pray give my regards to Lady Sophie when she returns from her ministrations. I shall be here to take anither cup very soon, I warn ye!"
    "Your majesty cannot call too often for us," Simon told him. "You are welcome to drop in whenever the fancy takes you."
    "There was just one trifling matter," put in the margrave, "—before your majesty leaves—not that I was in any expectation of finding your majesty in this house, no indeed! It was the most felicitous of coincidences that brought me under this charming roof at the same moment as your good grace. But since we
are
together, I cannot forbear to mention—"
    "Aye, aye, come awa', then," said the king, a little impatiently. "Speak yer mind, man, let us hear whit ye have to say."
    "I believe, sir," said the margrave, "that your majesty's father, your royal and much loved father—"
    Except by the Hanoverians, thought Simon.
    "I believe your majesty's father had arranged for some kind of triumphal procession at the opening of the new tunnel under the Thames between Shadwell and Rotherhithe, which is to take place in the not too distant future?"
    "Aye, faith, that's so," said the king. "The auld boy was gey set on his tunnel jollifications; he had laid plans for junketing and marching, regimental bands playing, and a' sic whigmaleeries. I've half a mind to revoke the whole business, I've no great stomach for such ploys maself; the less so since the puir auld dad is no so lang in his grave; yet Battersea here tells me the people are looking forward to the merrymaking and it wad be a peety tae disappoint 'em. I wadnae wish them tae think their new monarch is a killjoy and a mar-sport."
    "I am
certain
your majesty is in the right," purred the margrave. "And I am happy to hear that plans are still going forward for this happy affair. In my employ, sir, I have a musician—a most talented musician, I may say—and his talent is only exceeded by his zeal and patriotism. What has he taken it into his head to do but to write a suite of music designed expressly for this tunnel opening, and he solicited me to ask your majesty's permission to dedicate it to your gracious self, and ask if it might be played on the occasion while the procession is marching through the tunnel. Dare I ask your majesty's acceptance of this small offering?"
    "Ech. Ach. Humph," said the king, evidently taken aback by this request and not quite certain how to respond. "I am not in the musical way maself, and nor was my dad," he confessed. "I can tell a reel from a strathspey, that's aboot all.... Ye say this man is very talented?"
    "Oh, very,
very,
your majesty; to tell the truth, I believe him to be the most talented composer alive at this time. Moreover, he is thought to have the power of healing illness by his music; indeed, I believe that myself. He has done me great good."
    "What is his name?"
    "Boris Bredalbane."
    "Have ye e'er heard of the fellow, Battersea?"
    Simon had looked up, half expecting to hear the name
Twite;
he shook his head.
    "How does this offer jump with you?" the king asked him. "Would it fit in with your arrangements? I have placed the duke here in charge of the festivities," he told the margrave.
    "And a fine choice, I've no doubt," said that gentleman, giving Simon a brief glance. "Let me assure you, my dear
Battersea, that my chapel-master's music can only add a brilliant luster to your no doubt