Uhura's Mazda
Banned
If Colonel Careless had known how wet it was going to get that day, he wouldn’t have suggested it. That was what he told himself later. But fundamentally, the plan was sound. There were Roundheads scouting everywhere, for goodness’ sake, of course they were going to have a gander at the priest holes at Boscobel House, and that Penderel chap was a fool to suggest otherwise. Colonel Careless knew how to hide: he was a Catholic.
The fact that the roving Parliamentarians did not, in the end, search Boscobel House at all was a tragic irony, as it turned out.
Colonel Careless cradled the sleeping King in his arms, all six foot two of him. This wouldn’t have been a worry, except that they happened to be in the upper reaches of an oak tree at the time. Far below, a couple of Cromwell’s fiends wandered through the parkland without so much as a by-your-leave, tossing apples between one another in their mirth. If the last decade of war had gone otherwise, Colonel Careless would have leapt down to reprimand them on the slovenliness of their bandoliers, but as it was, Careless was got up in some foolish peasant costume that he’d borrowed from Penderel.
To be fair to him, William Penderel had done his bit the previous night, trying and failing to find a way across the Severn for them all – or Charles, at least. His Majesty. It didn’t look too hopeful at that point, what with the rabble of Scots and recusants getting demolished by the New Model Army, a force nearly twice the size of their own – Colonel Careless had been the last man off the field of battle, bar the dead ones. Perhaps, indeed, it was God’s will that the King should never more reign in England. Anyway, that was three days ago, and matters hadn’t exactly improved. For one thing, Careless was coming to the numb realisation that he’d caught cold, perched on that sodden branch with his hands occupied with the sleeping bulk of the rightful King.
He really needed to wipe his nose.
He waited until the pair of vulgar Roundheads had passed beyond earshot, and carefully extricated his left hand from His Majesty’s right flank: “Your Majesty!” he hissed. No response was forthcoming: to be fair, Charles II had had a devilishly long night, what with all the running and hiding on the banks of the Severn. His soft feet were had been rubbed raw by the leather, and were still bleeding through the slits that had been cut to account for the sheer size of His Majesty’s feet. He didn’t deserve to be woken up like this, but let’s face it, Colonel Careless was temporarily in much greater need. “Your Majesty! You’re going to have to cling on yourself for a minute.”
Still the King lay there like ballast. Colonel Careless came to a conclusion that he wouldn’t have dared make if he hadn’t been a foot away from the King’s forehead for the last six hours. He slipped his left hand up the baggy sleeve of the King’s soaking costume, all the while redistributing minutely the weight of the pair on the branch. He pinched King Charles II on the arm.
Now, one of the major differences between royalty and everyone else is that royalty tends not to be too keen on other people causing them physical pain – or, in some cases, touching them at all. Thus, it comes as a bit of a surprise to your average King when he’s rudely awaken from a peaceful dream about lemon drizzle cake or suchlike by the strong pinch of a hardened soldier who’s mind is focused by the dollop of phlegm dripping inexorably towards his upper lip. And in this case, King Charles II spasmed, his eyes still closed, and caught Colonel Careless on the jaw with a weak slap.
This was enough, on that slippery branch, to disrupt the equilibrium that Careless had carefully maintained for the last six hours. Confusion reigned for a nanosecond, but essentially Careless’ reptilian brain looked out for Numero Uno, and it turned out that Careless’ reptilian brain had a substantially different idea of who ‘Numero Uno’ was than the rest of Careless’ brain did. The upshot of all this was that Charles II, still presumably unconscious, plummeted out of the pollarded oak tree and splatted into a root which protruded from the mud below – head first. The mess was spread over quite a large area by the time Colonel Careless felt able to unclench any muscle at all, let alone his precarious grip on the branch.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake” said Colonel Careless. Then he sneezed.
The fact that the roving Parliamentarians did not, in the end, search Boscobel House at all was a tragic irony, as it turned out.
Colonel Careless cradled the sleeping King in his arms, all six foot two of him. This wouldn’t have been a worry, except that they happened to be in the upper reaches of an oak tree at the time. Far below, a couple of Cromwell’s fiends wandered through the parkland without so much as a by-your-leave, tossing apples between one another in their mirth. If the last decade of war had gone otherwise, Colonel Careless would have leapt down to reprimand them on the slovenliness of their bandoliers, but as it was, Careless was got up in some foolish peasant costume that he’d borrowed from Penderel.
To be fair to him, William Penderel had done his bit the previous night, trying and failing to find a way across the Severn for them all – or Charles, at least. His Majesty. It didn’t look too hopeful at that point, what with the rabble of Scots and recusants getting demolished by the New Model Army, a force nearly twice the size of their own – Colonel Careless had been the last man off the field of battle, bar the dead ones. Perhaps, indeed, it was God’s will that the King should never more reign in England. Anyway, that was three days ago, and matters hadn’t exactly improved. For one thing, Careless was coming to the numb realisation that he’d caught cold, perched on that sodden branch with his hands occupied with the sleeping bulk of the rightful King.
He really needed to wipe his nose.
He waited until the pair of vulgar Roundheads had passed beyond earshot, and carefully extricated his left hand from His Majesty’s right flank: “Your Majesty!” he hissed. No response was forthcoming: to be fair, Charles II had had a devilishly long night, what with all the running and hiding on the banks of the Severn. His soft feet were had been rubbed raw by the leather, and were still bleeding through the slits that had been cut to account for the sheer size of His Majesty’s feet. He didn’t deserve to be woken up like this, but let’s face it, Colonel Careless was temporarily in much greater need. “Your Majesty! You’re going to have to cling on yourself for a minute.”
Still the King lay there like ballast. Colonel Careless came to a conclusion that he wouldn’t have dared make if he hadn’t been a foot away from the King’s forehead for the last six hours. He slipped his left hand up the baggy sleeve of the King’s soaking costume, all the while redistributing minutely the weight of the pair on the branch. He pinched King Charles II on the arm.
Now, one of the major differences between royalty and everyone else is that royalty tends not to be too keen on other people causing them physical pain – or, in some cases, touching them at all. Thus, it comes as a bit of a surprise to your average King when he’s rudely awaken from a peaceful dream about lemon drizzle cake or suchlike by the strong pinch of a hardened soldier who’s mind is focused by the dollop of phlegm dripping inexorably towards his upper lip. And in this case, King Charles II spasmed, his eyes still closed, and caught Colonel Careless on the jaw with a weak slap.
This was enough, on that slippery branch, to disrupt the equilibrium that Careless had carefully maintained for the last six hours. Confusion reigned for a nanosecond, but essentially Careless’ reptilian brain looked out for Numero Uno, and it turned out that Careless’ reptilian brain had a substantially different idea of who ‘Numero Uno’ was than the rest of Careless’ brain did. The upshot of all this was that Charles II, still presumably unconscious, plummeted out of the pollarded oak tree and splatted into a root which protruded from the mud below – head first. The mess was spread over quite a large area by the time Colonel Careless felt able to unclench any muscle at all, let alone his precarious grip on the branch.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake” said Colonel Careless. Then he sneezed.
