another thing I learned about royalty and their servants: patience was not their long suit.
“The king, the queen, and several of the staff were injured in the attack. One of the maids lost her nose.”
“Lost her nose?” I said, horrified.
Montague nodded.
“How?”
“One of the birds pecked it off. It was horrible.” He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
“Hold on a minute,” I said, forgetting for the moment that my role in this meeting was to be deferential. “What birds are you referring to?”
Montague paused and looked at me with an air of perplexity. “Sorry, old chap,” he said. “I forgot to tell you.” He wiped his nose with an oversized handkerchief.
“The royal family and staff were attacked by birds. Blackbirds to be precise.”
“Blackbirds?”
Montague shrugged. “That’s the official story But—well, let’s leave it at that for the moment. It isn’t important.”
My curiosity was piqued, but I accepted it—for the moment.
“You say this was a cowardly attack,” I said. “I presume by that you believe someone put the birds up to this. How exactly does one go about training blackbirds to attack people?”
“Oh, it was deliberate,” Montague said. “The birds were smuggled into the palace in a pie.”
The tale was becoming more bizarre by the minute. I held up my hand. “A pie? Blackbirds in a pie? What a strange thing to do.”
“It’s somewhat like the Trojan Horse,” Montague said.
“How did the pie get into the palace?” I asked. “Didn’t your security guards inspect it before they allowed it into the king’s chambers—or kitchen. Or wherever?”
“It was delivered UPS, Ultimate Pie Service. And it is not an unusual delivery. Her Majesty is quite fond of pie and has it delivered almost daily. Whoever did this dastardly deed was aware of that I’m sure.” He smiled ruefully. “Of course, this pie was considerably larger than most.”
“How much larger?”
“The pie was perhaps two feet in diameter. Most of our pies are about ten inches. There must have been a couple of dozen birds in the pie.”
“A pie that size should have raised some eyebrows,” I said. “Wouldn’t security be curious? I would think they would…”
“That’s not for me to say,”
I scratched my ear thoughtfully. I tried to envision blackbirds flying around the royal residence, attacking the king and queen, as well as pecking the nose off of a maid. But how does one get a blackbird into a pie in the first place? I posed the question to Montague. He smiled.
“Simple,” he said with a note of superiority. “One simply places the bird in a pie pan, covers it with a top crust, and bakes it.”
“Bakes it?”
“Yes. 350 degrees for one hour.”
I sat up amazed. “Wouldn’t that kill the birds?”
Montague leaned forward. “No. But I think you should know that the birds aren’t really blackbirds. They are bluejays. They just turned black during the bake cycle. And there’s nothing meaner than a bluejay who’s been baked in a pie.”
I took his word for it, hoping I would never have it proven to me personally. I changed the subject.
“OK. So we have a bunch of birds, annoyed by being shut up in a pie and baked for an hour at 350 degrees. What happened next?”
Montague shifted in his chair. “When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.”
“Sing?” I repeated. “I thought you said they were angry.”
Montague shrugged. “I’m just reporting what I was told by His Majesty.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice a decibel. “Just between you and me, the king has a tin ear. I believe they were screeching. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
That made sense (a rare occurrence in Nurseryland). I was intrigued by the idea. Royalty has a history of retaining the services of brilliant musicians such as Mozart. What a waste. King Hart couldn’t tell the difference between “The Magic Flute” and a bunch of screeching bluejays.
“The king, the queen, and several of the staff were injured in the attack. One of the maids lost her nose.”
“Lost her nose?” I said, horrified.
Montague nodded.
“How?”
“One of the birds pecked it off. It was horrible.” He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
“Hold on a minute,” I said, forgetting for the moment that my role in this meeting was to be deferential. “What birds are you referring to?”
Montague paused and looked at me with an air of perplexity. “Sorry, old chap,” he said. “I forgot to tell you.” He wiped his nose with an oversized handkerchief.
“The royal family and staff were attacked by birds. Blackbirds to be precise.”
“Blackbirds?”
Montague shrugged. “That’s the official story But—well, let’s leave it at that for the moment. It isn’t important.”
My curiosity was piqued, but I accepted it—for the moment.
“You say this was a cowardly attack,” I said. “I presume by that you believe someone put the birds up to this. How exactly does one go about training blackbirds to attack people?”
“Oh, it was deliberate,” Montague said. “The birds were smuggled into the palace in a pie.”
The tale was becoming more bizarre by the minute. I held up my hand. “A pie? Blackbirds in a pie? What a strange thing to do.”
“It’s somewhat like the Trojan Horse,” Montague said.
“How did the pie get into the palace?” I asked. “Didn’t your security guards inspect it before they allowed it into the king’s chambers—or kitchen. Or wherever?”
“It was delivered UPS, Ultimate Pie Service. And it is not an unusual delivery. Her Majesty is quite fond of pie and has it delivered almost daily. Whoever did this dastardly deed was aware of that I’m sure.” He smiled ruefully. “Of course, this pie was considerably larger than most.”
“How much larger?”
“The pie was perhaps two feet in diameter. Most of our pies are about ten inches. There must have been a couple of dozen birds in the pie.”
“A pie that size should have raised some eyebrows,” I said. “Wouldn’t security be curious? I would think they would…”
“That’s not for me to say,”
I scratched my ear thoughtfully. I tried to envision blackbirds flying around the royal residence, attacking the king and queen, as well as pecking the nose off of a maid. But how does one get a blackbird into a pie in the first place? I posed the question to Montague. He smiled.
“Simple,” he said with a note of superiority. “One simply places the bird in a pie pan, covers it with a top crust, and bakes it.”
“Bakes it?”
“Yes. 350 degrees for one hour.”
I sat up amazed. “Wouldn’t that kill the birds?”
Montague leaned forward. “No. But I think you should know that the birds aren’t really blackbirds. They are bluejays. They just turned black during the bake cycle. And there’s nothing meaner than a bluejay who’s been baked in a pie.”
I took his word for it, hoping I would never have it proven to me personally. I changed the subject.
“OK. So we have a bunch of birds, annoyed by being shut up in a pie and baked for an hour at 350 degrees. What happened next?”
Montague shifted in his chair. “When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.”
“Sing?” I repeated. “I thought you said they were angry.”
Montague shrugged. “I’m just reporting what I was told by His Majesty.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice a decibel. “Just between you and me, the king has a tin ear. I believe they were screeching. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
That made sense (a rare occurrence in Nurseryland). I was intrigued by the idea. Royalty has a history of retaining the services of brilliant musicians such as Mozart. What a waste. King Hart couldn’t tell the difference between “The Magic Flute” and a bunch of screeching bluejays.
Similar Books
