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You have my word. Sir.'
    The King's pale blue eyes had a permanent downward cast which made him appear always sincere and frequently mournful as though burdened by some sense of guilt, yet now they sparkled with unmistakable enthusiasm. He reached out for the other man's hand. 'Mr Urquhart, I believe we are going to get along famously.'
    Seemingly unbidden, the King's Private Secretary was once more at the open doors and with a bow of respect Urquhart made his way towards them. He had all but crossed the threshold when he heard the words thrown after him. 'Thank you once again, Prime Minister!'
    Prime Minister. There it was, for the first time. He'd done it. My Government. My Government. It had all seemed so improbable, but there had been so many improbable Prime Ministers. Pitt, a mere youth of twenty-four. Disraeli, a Jew. Lloyd George, an outrageous adulterer who sold peerages for hard cash. Churchill, son of a syphilitic. Macmillan, a cuckold who honoured his wife's lover with a peerage. The Earl of Home, the Tory Party's noble ruin. And Margaret Thatcher, housewife. Lord Home was a thoroughgoing gentleman whereas she was unrepentantly ruthless, yet she had won every election she fought while he led his Government to instant defeat. It took ruthlessncss and even a little sin to understand power and its uses. He had learnt the lesson. Never repent. For most the art of politics was all about survival, but that alone had never been enough for him. What was the use of engaging in the battle of ideas and egos if all one was left with was survival? Political success required sacrifices, preferably of others, and he had sacrificed enough in his time. Friends, colleagues, those closest to him. Pushed, prodded, thrown from the rooftops and beneath the wheels of public opinion. And he had never repented. Leadership brought with it the awesome and inescapable responsibilities of life and death, and he knew he was worthy of such decisions.
    'So . . . what did he say?' They were in the car on the way to Downing Street before his wife roused him from his reverie.
    'What? Oh, not a lot. Wished me well. Talked about the great opportunities ahead. Went on about a building site near Westminster Abbey. Wants me to ensure it's built in mock Tudor or some such nonsense.'
    'Will you humour him?'
    'Elizabeth, if sincerity could build temples then the whole of England would be covered in his follies, but this is no longer the Dark Ages. The King's job is to give garden parties and to save us the bother of electing someone else president, not to go round interfering in the business of government.'
    Elizabeth snorted her agreement as she fumbled impatiently through her bag in search of lipstick. She was a Colquhoun by birth, a family which could trace its descent in direct line from the ancient kings of Scotland. They had long since lost the feudal estates and heirlooms to the confiscations of early cross-border raiding parties and the latter-day ravages of taxmen and inflation, but she had never lost her sense of social positioning or her belief that most modern aristocracy were interlopers - including 'the current Royal Family', as she would frequently put it. Royalty was merely an accident of birth, and of marriage and of death and the occasional execution or bloody murder; it could just as easily have been a Colquhoun as a Windsor, and all the more pure stock for that. At times she became distinctly tedious on the subject, and Urquhart decided to head her off.
    'Of course I shall humour him. Better a King with a conscience than not, I suspect, and the last thing I need is sour grapes growing all over the Palace. Anyway, there are other battles to be fought and I want him and his popularity firmly behind me. I shall need it.' His tone was serious and his eyes set upon a future of perceived challenges. 'But at the end of the day, Elizabeth, I am the Prime Minister and he is the King. He does what I tell him to, not the other way around. The job's