God's Crusade

Part Seven

The King had made rather a lot of changes at Windsor since he had first proclaimed himself a born-again Reformist, and had forced all the members of 'the firm' to do the same. To be more accurate, he had attempted to force them all to accept Reformist teachings, but a fair proportion of his close relatives had made a quick evaluation of their worldly possessions and, if their saleable value came to an amount which would keep them in comfort for the rest of their days, they hurriedly left the country. Once abroad, they were quite happy to sponge off relatives and friends until they had long outstayed their welcome, and would have to start paying their own living expenses.

This wholesale desertion by so many 'royals' might have brought down the monarchy, but the King's subjects, guided by the usual truly British sense of fair play, had decided not to kick him while he was down, as he really seemed to be sharing their willingness to change for the better. So King Charles III actually emerged from these embarrassments with far fewer spongers seeking to raid the Privy Purse, and with Joe Public sending the King's approval ratings rocketing up because he was, all of a sudden, seen to be much more in tune with the people. After all, he had stayed true to Britain and to the Reformist movement rather than running away. He supported the idea of social change and a decent standard of living for all and he made sure that his family made the same sacrifices as everyone else.

His new-found enthusiasm had rapidly seen major alterations at Sandringham, Windsor and Balmoral. All were now hotbeds of Reformism, the King having given large parts of his properties to the faith. The whole of the west wing of Windsor castle had been taken over by the Reformist Research Unit. The Reformist Church of Scotland had its new headquarters in Balmoral House, while Sandringham, a house Charles had never really liked, had been signed over to the movement to house a Guardian Training College, with a small convent alongside it in his late mother's honour.

As the Jaguar swept down off the M4 motorway and onto the road into Windsor, Mena noticed the complete lack of visible women, even in Eton High Street. The place as always had a fair sprinkling of Etonians out from the college, but it seemed that the place had suddenly become a single sex zone. Only as the car drove up from the river towards the Castle did Mena see any women, and then just two of them. And they were bonneted, cloaked and mantled in the dark green uniforms that signified that they worked for the government in some capacity. Abruptly, Mena felt embarrassed and leant urgently towards her father who sat right by her side, resplendent in his full Ambassador's ceremonial uniform.

"Dad, do you think I should wear a mantle? I haven't seen a single female face since we left London."

Sir James stroked his daughter's gloved hand and smiled reassuringly.

"No need, Rabbit. The King will have been fully briefed about both of us. He'll know that we support the modern renaissance hook, line and sinker, but he'll also know that we haven't joined in with the religious part of the movement, as it were. It always has been a political and a religious revolution...we are not so unusual, I promise. It is just that Windsor is one of those places around which the faithful congregate. So his majesty will expect to see that pretty face of yours. It will be a treat for him...given that he can't see any other female face barring the Queen's around here. And she is, to put it politely, by all accounts well past her prime. He'll actively enjoy seeing you, Rabbit, I am sure."

Mena sat back, still feeling vaguely ill at ease at her unveiled state. 'After all,' Mena told herself, 'Jen is wearing a mantle...but I have to be on public display. Maybe there are some advantages in the costumes Reformist women wear, after all?'

Ten minutes later her vague feelings had turned into something rather a lot more worrying to her. For she stood at one end of the audience chamber and, as she rose from her initial curtsey, she looked down the vast chamber with its carved wood ceiling and paintings by Reuben's and Holbein on its oak panelled walls. Flanking the central aisle, down which she and her father were about to walk, were an array of people, some in uniform, some in smart suits, but all very male. However, on the raised dais at the other end of the chamber were two ornate chairs. In one sat the King himself, in the flesh, grey haired, his haggard features drawn and sallow with age. On the other was perched what looked like an ill wrapped parcel of dark blue velvet, the materials obviously weighty folds falling down in front of the floor so as to not only conceal what must be the Queen totally, but to give no real hint of her size and shape. Behind the Queen's throne, and to one side, stood two more velvet draped figures both still and silent; the Queen's Ladies in Waiting Mena presumed. They were just as shapeless as their employer and...