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By the time Hookham Frere reappeared to drag him from Downing Street to Buckingham Palace, Hornblower felt exhausted and depressed. He’d just returned home to England after an arduous escape from France, but he felt as though he’d merely traded one prison for another. He was supremely uncomfortable with his sudden fame, the gaze of the masses following him wherever he went. It pricked at his pride to be led around and used as a political tool by shady government characters. And he longed desperately to see Lady Barbara, and his son. So it was that after such a homecoming, at ten o’clock at night, Hornblower, wrapped in a cloud of restlessness and disappointment, was ushered into the palace to meet His Royal Highness Prince George.
The click of his shoes on the floor echoed through the high halls as he trailed behind Frere, who had been chattering all day and was still doing so. “...It isn’t often Prinny’s sober enough for business at this time in the evening,” he said offhandedly. “Probably he’s not. You may find tact necessary in your interview with him.”
Hornblower began to feel sick. His nerves had been worn thin worrying about the court-martial for his loss of the Sutherland , and the tour of the government hadn’t allowed him any time to recover. He desperately tried to subdue the feeling, but found that the attempt only made it worse. “Ah, if I may,” he said, hoping his voice did not betray his inner weakness, “I… that is, my last meal has not quite agreed with me, so I should like to briefly - ”
“Sorry, but we’ve no time,” Frere said. Through Hornblower’s own efforts to conceal his discomfort, he was completely unaware of the true pressing nature of the problem. “It’s bad form to keep HRH waiting as long as we have, even if the man himself wouldn't notice if we were two years late. Besides, it's my understanding that there’s a surprise in store for you, so best hasten and find out what it is, eh?”
Hornblower nodded, but the wrenching pain in his stomach only grew worse. The hall he was walking seemed to stretch into eternity. He was starting to sweat.
They were nearing a large door. Frere looked about to motion him inside. Horatio took a step forward, then doubled over. “Excuse me,” he wheezed, and ran off through the palace in search of somewhere to discreetly throw up.
Ten minutes later, he stepped back out into the hall, straightening his jacket. He’d managed to find a privy in time, and now the only feeling in his stomach was one of dull emptiness. He looked around for Frere, and suddenly noticed he was alone in the hall. Worse than that, this was not the same hall he’d left; the door he’d been about to enter with Frere was nowhere in sight.
Hornblower stood still for a few moments, dazed. He was a fantastic navigator while at sea, but finding one’s way around while on land was a different matter entirely; for one, it didn’t involve any mathematics and was more based on an ability to recognize landmarks. Even though he knew intuitively that this was not the right hallway, it looked exactly the same to him as every other hall in the palace.
With a terrible sinking feeling, he realized he had no idea where he was. He took a few steps towards the end of the hall. “Hello?” he called out. Having to do so pained him, but no one answered.
Hornblower cursed himself violently, then rushed down the hall. Reaching the end, he found himself faced with another identical hall. And at the end of that one, another. After innumerable turns, he felt more lost than ever, and he still hadn't encountered a single soul. He had to stop for a break to catch his breath, leaning back against a wall and despairing of ever seeing the sunlight again, much less making his meeting with the prince.
Then, faintly, he began to hear voices. Hope surged within him, and he all but sprinted towards the source. The voices eventually brought him to a darkened stairwell; it seemed to lead down to a large kitchen, where two men sat by a long table laden with food. Hornblower descended the stairs slowly. It seemed they hadn’t noticed him yet.
The taller of the two men, a butler judging by his dress, folded up the newspaper he’d been reading and laid it on the table. “Honestly, Baldrick,” he said. “What’s so special about this trussed-up captain fellow anyway?”
The shorter man, if indeed it was a man and not a sentient ball of dirt or an upright rodent, picked up the newspaper and threw it onto the fire. “I heard ‘e’s a milit’ry hero.”
The butler snorted. “In the Navy? Please. I, too, can get drunk and put on a silly hat, but you don’t see me with a star and sash.” He inspected his fingernails. “Besides, escaping from the French hardly merits any distinction. After all, if you have done it, then it can’t be much of a feat.”
Baldrick shrugged. “If you say so, Mr. B.”
The butler sighed. “If you weren’t an illiterate clod I’d ask if you could believe those headlines. You’d think this were the second coming of Christ. And with a name like ‘Horatio Hornblower.’” He shook his head. “If I had a name like that, I’d shoot myself. Seems fitting for a sailor boy, though, now that I think about it. The man’s got to be pretty popular below decks if you know what I mean - ”
Hornblower could bear it no longer. He stormed into the kitchen. “That, sir, was an insulting remark!”
The butler turned to look at him, merely raising an eyebrow. “Obviously. Although some might think I meant it as a compliment.” He leaned languidly back against the table, his sour gaze looking Hornblower up and down. “You must be here for the spindly-leg competition. Three doors down, to the left.”
Hornblower glared furiously at him. He’d faced down many an enemy, but even he had never met such a singularly obnoxious individual in his entire life. “I happen to be the man you were just discussing.”
“Yes, I know, I’m not an idiot,” the butler said, looking bored.
“...Then who are you?”
“Edmund Blackadder, Esq. Butler to His Royal Highness, the Great Fat Fop Upstairs.”
Hornblower was taken slightly aback. The man had just insulted his employer, not to mention the practical head of state. Was he a fool? A madman? Or something worse...? Suddenly less sure of himself, he cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Blackadder, you have impugned my honor. I demand satisfaction.”
Blackadder scoffed. “Look, you can demand your satisfaction until you’re blue in the face. I have no honor and I have even less interest in putting my own hide in danger. You’d have to be a truly scary brute to threaten me into a duel… someone like that Wellington monster. Trust me, I’m not about to pick up a pistol over a gangly-limbed squib with a receding hairline who thinks he’s Mars himself because he’s got epaulettes.” He pointed to Hornblower’s jacket. “Besides, there are patches on your uniform and brass buckles on your shoes. You’re probably poorer than I am, and that’s saying something, considering I just blew my entire life’s savings to pacify an angry Tunisian sock merchant. Meanwhile, I have the ear of His Royal Highness, a rather thick ear though it may be. I can insult you with impunity.”
The moving cloud of filth that was Baldrick approached Hornblower, and he backed away, conscious of an unspeakable odor emanating from the man’s trousers. “‘Ere, aren’t you s’posed to be meetin’ with the prince?” the hideous creature asked.
Blackadder picked up an apple off the table and bit into it. “He probably got lost, Baldrick. Take a sailor any further inland than the backdoor of a Portsmouth pub and he couldn’t find his way out of a barrel of sardines.”
Hornblower hated that he was right. He flushed with embarrassment. Even if there existed a retort that could save him, it did not come to mind. Perhaps if he changed the subject… He paused, remembering something that had struck him as odd. “Earlier, you mentioned a star and sash.”
Blackadder raised an eyebrow. “Oh, didn't they tell you? You’re being knighted.”
Hornblower didn’t believe him at first. “Knighted?”
“Yes, had to dig the prince’s sword out of his armoire and everything,” Blackadder said. “Though to be honest, I wouldn't trust that bumbling nincompoop anywhere near my neck, especially with a bladed weapon. You’d better hope he doesn't trip on anything.”
Hornblower’s mind reeled. He was to become a knight. Sir Horatio Hornblower… it felt unreal. Especially coming from a tongue that had just been stinging him like a cat ‘o nine tails. A thought occurred to him; maybe the butler was lying, to make a fool out of him. But that didn’t explain the man’s extreme bitterness. Up until this moment, Hornblower had had no quarrel with him.
Due to the shocking nature of their meeting, Hornblower’s analytical powers of observation had been relegated to the back of his mind, working without his conscious attention. But now realization dawned on him, and it brought a thin smile to his lips. It was rather obvious, now that he thought about it. “You’re jealous!”
Blackadder, for the first time, looked affronted. “What? Of you? Ridiculous.”
The response confirmed it. “You are indeed, sir.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Insanely.”
“No!” Blackadder grimaced, then tried to re-adopt his manner of aloof derision, but the damage had already been done. “Believe that if it makes you feel better.”
“As a matter of fact, it does. The knowledge is quite gratifying.” Hornblower felt curiously uninhibited; he would have never admitted to taking pleasure from the misery of others in more polite company. But at some point this had become a battle of words, and his competitive instincts were roused, trumping his customary reserve. In the face of such a skilled opponent, Hornblower would have to do whatever was necessary to win.
Blackadder made a strangled noise of frustration. “Politics,” he spat. “Bloody politics, that’s all it is. The British public wouldn’t be content to send their sons off to die in France if they didn’t get to fawn over a hero with a shiny medal every once in a while. And don’t feel like you’re anything special; Baldrick over here is technically a lord.”
“I can afford to buy a whole turnip every week,” Baldrick announced proudly.
Hornblower felt the depression creeping up on him again; Blackadder had given voice to his own suspicions about the motivation behind this unexpected honor. He couldn’t feel like he’d earned his knighthood if it was really nothing more than the result of unseen political maneuvering. The achievement would be forever poisoned by that knowledge. But he was not about to give up his foothold over the butler. Hornblower, too, could be extremely petty, and for the first time he had an opportunity to openly exercise the impulse. “Well, I’d say Lord Baldrick is deserving of his peerage,” he said, looking straight at Blackadder, “for of His Royal Highness’ personal servants, he seems to be the least malodorous and offensive.”
Blackadder shot up from the table. “You’ve got some nerve!” Comparison to Baldrick was evidently a line that could not be crossed lightly. “I don't have to take this. Not from a bandy-legged sea-poodle with a nose that could serve as a sundial.”
Standing, Blackadder was on the shorter side of average height, and Hornblower had a good couple of inches on him. He allowed a bit of smugness to show in his smile. “I believe that’s Sir Bandy-legged Sea-poodle to you, Mr. Blackadder. And a man with a face like yours really doesn't want to bring noses into this.”
Baldrick glanced back and forth between the two of them, evidently enjoying the show. “Why’s that?”
“He’s saying I'm objectively ugly, Balders,” Blackadder explained coldly.
“And merely a butler,” Hornblower added, “whose highest purpose in life is to serve the prince, and his distinguished guests. Really, I’ve been remarkably indulgent of this farce, if only because your attempts to salvage your personal pride are amusing to me.” He hardened his gaze. “If you were one of my seamen, I’d have you strung up from the yardarm.”
That made the other man hesitate, because Hornblower really meant it. Such grave insults directed at a superior officer were punishable, as were most things, by death.
Blackadder scowled at him silently for a few moments. Then he spoke, bitterly. “Was there something that you wanted, sir?” He was handing over his sword.
“Take me to see His Royal Highness,” Hornblower said, and exulted in his triumph.
Blackadder led him through the maze of halls until they reached the prince’s chambers, where Frere was waiting nervously. “Where the devil have you been?” he hissed. “We’ll be lucky if Prinny hasn't clean forgot about you at this rate!”
Hornblower couldn’t be bothered to afford him an explanation. He just wanted to get this whole thing over with.
Blackadder pushed open the doors to the prince’s chambers, entered, and stood to the side. “Captain Horatio Hornblower and Mr. Hookham Frere,” he announced, now properly deferential.
The prince was seated on a massive bed, his legs splayed in front of him. He seemed completely startled by their arrival. “Oh! Hullo!” He blinked. “Captain, eh? Sounds jolly fun. What brings you round?”
Hornblower just barely heard a sigh from Frere. He gulped and dipped his head. He wasn’t sure how to handle this. “I… was told you asked to see me, your highness.”
“Did I?” George turned to Blackadder. “D’you remember why I wanted to see him, Bladders?”
Blackadder had a positively evil look on his face, and Hornblower was sure he would have told the prince he’d wanted him executed if Frere hadn’t stepped in. “I believe your highness expressed to me that you wished to congratulate Captain Hornblower on his recent exploits, and on his daring escape from France.”
“Oh. Oh, yes! You’re the man from the papers!” George grinned. “Must have been a lark, that escaping bit, eh?”
“A lark?” Hornblower repeated, a bit incredulously. He’d lost his ship. Half his men were dead, and the other half were still rotting in a French prison. When he began his escape attempt he’d been on his way to being shot as a spy. He’d nearly drowned in river rapids. His only friend in the world had lost a leg. “Ah… I suppose so, your highness,” he mumbled.
George reached for a plate of grapes that sat on a small stand next to the bed. “Well, congratulations,” he said, popping at least three into his mouth. “Anything else?”
Frere cleared his throat, glancing at Hornblower. “...Your highness also intended to name him a Knight of the Bath, as I recall.”
Hornblower tried to look pleasantly surprised and deeply honored, but at the same time humble. He failed. The smile frozen on his face looked more like the expression of a captain who, after a really good morning, leaves his cabin to find his ship dismasted.
Luckily, the prince didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, good, that’s my favorite ceremony. It makes me feel really cool and medieval.” He bounced out of the bed. “Bladders, where’ve you put my sword?”
“Here you are, highness,” Blackadder said, producing a sheathed sword and handing it hilt-first to George. Hornblower remembered the butler’s comment about hoping the prince didn’t trip on anything. He’d dismissed it at first, but now… He found himself scanning the carpet for bumps.
George drew the sword from its sheath and, worryingly, gave it a practice swing. “Alright, Captain Hornswoggler,” he said, “come on over here and kneel down, would you?”
Hornblower complied. He considered closing his eyes, but thought that might make things worse. The sword was a fine one, and its silver blade glittered before his eyes. The tip was hovering about an inch from his nose. “Okay, now hold still,” said George, licking his lips in concentration.
The sword drew back, and then came down, its blade end pointed directly towards his neck. In the few seconds remaining to him, Hornblower reflected on the times in his life when he’d faced certain death. Out of all of them, this was by far the worst way to go.
“Your highness!”
The sword stopped mid-swing. Hornblower looked up, and saw Blackadder holding the prince’s elbow. He gently turned George’s hand until the flat of the sword faced Hornblower’s shoulder. “I would recommend using this stance,” he said, tactfully. “To prevent strain on your wrist.”
George blinked. “Oh! Good idea.” He smiled at the butler. “Whatever would I do without you, Bladders?”
Blackadder glanced briefly towards the ceiling. “What indeed,” he muttered.
Hornblower exhaled deeply as the prince tapped his shoulder with the flat of the blade. It was a harder tap than was perhaps necessary, but he wasn’t about to complain. When he rose, he was presented by Frere with the ribbon and star of the Order of the Bath, and a cloak was draped over his shoulders. George attempted to go through the formal recitations but required hints from Blackadder after every second word, making the whole thing very long and arduous and embarrassing. Hornblower was informed by Frere that the prince intended on naming him a Colonel of Marines, as well, a post which had no duties but conferred upon him an extra twelve hundred pounds a year. He would never have to be poor again.
The ceremony having come to an end, the prince shouted “Hurrah!” and jumped back onto his bed. “Well, awfully fun meeting you, Captain Wornrower,” he said, then seemed to think of something. “Say, would you care to join me in a game of cards?”
Hornblower blinked. “Er… what sort of game did your highness have in mind?”
George tilted his head. “There’s different sorts?”
“...Well, yes. For instance, there’s whist - ”
“His highness the prince regent enjoys a game which is simply called ‘cards,’” Blackadder interjected. His expression was sly. “The rules are quite simple; the first player to give away all of his money wins.”
George grinned. “I’ve got to warn you, Cornthrower, I’m dashedly good.”
“Never lost so far,” Blackadder agreed, looking at Hornblower meaningfully.
Hornblower felt disgusted. By the slimy, scheming butler, by the prince’s blind stupidity, by everything that had happened to him so far today. “I believe I shall have to respectfully decline,” he said. “It is getting quite late, and I wouldn’t want to trouble his highness any longer.”
“Oh, very well,” George said, reaching back for the grapes. “Bladders will show you the way out. Damned easy to get lost in here.”
Upon leaving the prince’s chambers, Frere told Hornblower to go on ahead, that he had some minor business to take care of and that he would meet him at the coach. This left him alone in the hall with Blackadder, who walked ahead of him without so much as a single glance backward. Hornblower wouldn’t relish engaging in conversation with the man, but there was one thing he was curious about. “You stopped the prince from beheading me,” he said. “Why?”
Blackadder slowed his pace a little, so that presently he was walking beside Hornblower. “Well, it seems you now owe me a very large favor,” he said. “One of these days I may end up needing a getaway boat.”
“Somehow, I don’t doubt that.” Hornblower frowned. “But what if I refuse?”
“You won’t,” Blackadder said. “You’re a man of honor, after all.”
There was silence between them once more. Eventually, Blackadder sighed. “Must be nice, eh?”
“What?”
“Fame… Fortune… Ladies throwing their underthings.” Blackadder’s dark eyes met his own. “One day, I’ll have it all,” he said. “Just you see that I won’t.”
Hornblower felt the cloud of depression settling over him once more. Now that he had everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d worked for… he found he didn’t want it anymore. In his gloomy state, he saw his own darker qualities reflected in the man next to him; his ambitions, his pride, his impulse to manipulate. “You’ll never be satisfied,” he said, knowing that he spoke to himself as well. “It’ll never be enough.”
Blackadder raised an eyebrow. “I think I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, then stopped and dipped his head. They’d reached the front doors. “Goodnight, Sir Horatio,” he said dryly. “May we never meet again.”
Hornblower nodded, and said, pleasantly, “A thousand years would be too soon.” Without waiting for the butler to do so for him, he pushed open the doors and stepped out into the night, where the coach waited to carry him home.