Lords And Ladies

"I'm just Magrat Garlick! Kings ought to marry princesses and duchesses and people like that! People who are used to it! I don't want people shouting hooray just because I've gone by in a coach! And especially not people who've known me all my life! All this – this," her frantic gesture took in the hated garderobe, the huge four-poster bed, and the dressing room full of stiff and expensive clothes, "this stuff . . . it's not for me! It's for some kind of idea. Didn't you ever get those cut-outs, those dolls, you know, when you were a girl . . . dolls you cut out, and there were cut-out clothes as well? And you could make her anything you wanted? That's me! It's . . . it's like the bees! I'm being turned into a queen whether I want to or not! That's what's happening to me!"

"I'm sure the king bought you all those nice clothes because-"

"I don't mean just clothes. I mean people'd be shouting hooray if – if anyone went past in the coach!"

"But you were the one who fell in love with the king, ma'am," said Millie, bravely.

Magrat hesitated for a moment. She'd never quite analysed that emotion. Eventually she said, "No. He wasn't king then. No one knew he was going to be king. He was just a sad, nice little man in a cap and bells who everyone ignored."

Millie backed away a bit more.

"I expect it's nerves, ma'am," she gabbled. "Everyone feels nervous on the day before their wedding. Shall I . . . shall I see if I can make you some herbal-"

"I'm not nervous! And I can do my own herbal tea if I happen to want any!"

"Cook's very particular who goes into the herb garden, ma'am," said Millie.

"I've seen that herb garden! It's all leggy sage and yellowy parsley! If you can't stuff it up a chicken's bum, she doesn't think it's an herb! Anyway . . . who's queen in this vicinity?"

"I thought you didn't want to be, ma'am?" said Millie.

Magrat stared at her. For a moment she looked as if she was arguing with herself.

Millie might not have been the best-informed girl in the world, but she wasn't stupid. She was at the door and through it just as the breakfast tray hit the wall.

Magrat sat down on the bed with her head in her hands.

She didn't want to be queen. Being a queen was like being an actor, and Magrat had never been any good at acting. She'd always felt she wasn't very good at being Magrat, if it came to that.

The bustle of the pre-nuptial activities rose up from the town. There'd be folk dancing, of course – there seemed to be no way of preventing it – and probably folk singing would be perpetrated. And there'd be dancing bears and comic jugglers and the greasy pole competition, which for some reason Nanny Ogg always won. And bowling-with-a-pig. And the bran tub, which Nanny Ogg usually ran; it was a brave man who plunged his hand into a bran tub stocked by a witch with a broad sense of humour. Magrat had always liked the fairs. Up until now.

Well, there were still some things she could do.

She dressed herself in her commoner's clothes for the ' last time, and let herself out and down the back stairs to the widdershins tower and the room where Diamanda lay

Magrat had instructed Shawn to keep a good fire going in the grate, and Diamanda was still sleeping, peacefully, the unwakeable sleep.

Magrat couldn't help noticing that Diamanda was strikingly good-looking and, from what she'd heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly.

The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be –

Magrat strode to the bellpull in the comer and hauled on it.

After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting. There was gold paint on his hands.

"What," said Magrat, "are all these things?"

"Um. Don't like to say, ma'am . . ."

"One happens to be . . . very nearly . . . the queen," said Magrat.

"Yes, but the king said . . . well. Granny said-"

"Granny Weatherwax does not happen to rule the kingdom," said Magrat. She hated herself when she spoke like this, but it seemed to work. "And anyway she's not here. One is here, however, and if you don't tell one what's going on I'll see to it that you do all the dirty jobs around the palace."

"But I do all the dirty jobs anyway," said Shawn.

"I shall see to it that there are dirtier ones."

Magrat picked up one of the bundles. It was made up of strips of sheet wrapped around what turned out to be an iron bar.

"They're all around her," she said. "Why?"

Shawn looked at his feet. There was gold paint on his boots, too.

"Well, our mum said . . ."

"Yes?"

"Our mum said I was to see to it that there was iron round her. So me and Millie got some bars from down the smithy and wrapped 'em up like this and Millie packed 'em round her."

"Why?"

"To keep away the . . . the Lords and Ladies, ma'am."

"What? That's just old superstition! Anyway, everyone knows elves were good, whatever Granny Weatherwax says."

Behind her, Shawn flinched. Magrat pulled the wrapped iron lumps out of the bed and tossed them into the comer.