Chapter Text
"At this point we're basically waiting for each other to die. It's dreadfully tedious."
Whenever Harry Hart was invited to high tea with his aunt Regina, it was guaranteed to be interesting. Regina Woodward was that singular breed of elderly aristocrat who gave precisely as much of a shit about status and decorum as she felt like at any given time, and no more. For instance, at the moment she was wearing an immaculate designer dress with a high lace neckline and intricate beading around the hem, some elegant slippers, and to top it off the ugliest pair of thick-rimmed glasses Harry had ever seen.
Harry was fairly sure she wasn't trying to make any particular statement with the glasses. Regina simply did what Regina wanted.
Harry had been listening to her babble on for the last thirty minutes or so about the intricacies of a group of people she knew. To be honest, he hadn't been paying the best of attention. Was it the people she worked with? No, Harry couldn't even imagine his aunt Regina holding down a job. It wasn't as if she needed the money, and she spent far too much time abroad to be someone's employee. Just the other month she was supposed to accompany Harry's brother to a polo match, but instead she'd popped off to Hungary for the weekend at a moment's notice without so much as an explanation. What boss would tolerate her?
She must have been talking about some social group she belonged to, then. But that last bit. Waiting for someone to die? Harry quickly finished chewing his bite of egg sandwich so he could reply, "Sorry, tedious?"
"Yes, dear," said Regina as she dropped a spoonful of clotted cream onto a scone. "It's not as if Arthur can get rid of me, short of sending me on mission as often as he possibly can. And it's not as if I can get rid of him, short of killing him, and I'm not quite that exasperated with the man yet. But he knows as well as I that when he steps down, the knight with the most seniority takes his place. And with very nearly forty years in the service, the knight with seniority is damn well me."
Harry almost said something, but then he decided that it was probably safer to take another bite of his sandwich instead. Sometimes he wondered if Regina was only so fond of him because he knew when to shut up and let her talk. She certainly was under no social pressure to keep him around. He was only twenty-four, from a good family but the youngest and least-accomplished of three brothers, with very few connections outside his immediate relatives. Regina wasn't even his real aunt. She was just a friend of his mother's. It was practically charitable of her to invite him over for private teas.
And she was still talking. "Arthur thinks he can wait me out. He thinks if he just holds on a little longer, I'll retire or die and then he can hand Kingsman over to Chet – his precious Lancelot. Well, that's what he thought when I turned sixty-five, and it's been ten fucking years since then. I'll have Kingsman if I have to pry it out of his cold, dead fingers. Pass the sugar, dear."
Harry passed the sugar. But this time he couldn't hold it in. "Ah," he said. "And Kingsman is...?"
Regina regarded Harry over the tops of her hideous glasses as she took a sip of tea. "A covert intelligence organization."
Harry laughed nervously. Regina didn't so much as crack a smile.
"Like spies? You mean a spy organization?"
"Yes."
"So you're a spy, then?"
"Yes."
Harry started to put the rest of his sandwich down on his plate, then picked it back up again. He looked down at the table, left, right, and back at his aunt. She was staring at him, eerily quiet, waiting for his response. He raised the sandwich to his mouth.
"Harry, if you take another bite of that sandwich instead of saying something useful, so help me I will smack it out of your hand," said Regina.
Harry put the sandwich down and said, "Supposing I believe you and this isn't the weirdest prank you've ever pulled on me, why are you telling me this?"
"Oh, my dear. If this were a prank it would be far from the weirdest I've ever pulled," said Regina with a laugh. "And I'm telling you because we have an opening, and I am seriously considering proposing you for the job."
Harry searched his aunt's face for any hint of a smirk or a wink. Finding nothing, he resolved to play along. "Why me? I've never fired a gun or been in a fight. I don't even think I could run a mile if there were wild dogs chasing me. Why not my brothers? Brandon's a rugby champion, and Ron's in the army. Either of them would make a better spy than me."
Regina nodded approvingly. "Now you're asking the right sort of questions. I won't lie to you – you'll be somewhat out of place among the other candidates. They do tend to skew toward the physically gifted and yes, most of them end up being former military. But Kingsman can teach you to run and fight and shoot. The reason I'm proposing you is because you already have the most important attribute."
"Which is?"
"Diplomacy," said Regina. "Espionage is nothing if not a lot of very sneaky politics. You studied linguistics at school. You speak five languages, and your professors say that you pick up new ones at the drop of a hat. Your father may have gotten your foot in the door for that job at the British Embassy in Berlin, but by all accounts you were doing magnificently. You're thoughtful, considerate, and you aren't in love with the sound of your own voice like some of the windbags that currently call themselves Kingsman knights. The only blot on your record would seem to be the way you exited that aforementioned embassy position."
Harry felt his cheeks prickle with heat. He retrieved the rest of his sandwich and stuffed it in his mouth.
"You were dismissed rather ungraciously after you were caught in flagrante delicto with a married, male, German attaché. Returned home in disgrace, your father will barely speak to you, et cetera."
"How do you know about that?" Harry's father, in between purple-faced screamed reprimands, had assured him that the details of his dismissal would be kept under the tightest wraps money could buy.
Regina raised an eyebrow and crooked a finger toward herself. "Spy," she reminded her nephew.
Harry, crimson-faced, snatched one of the miniature trifles off the top of the tower. If he had to leave Regina's home in humiliation, he was at least going to eat dessert first.
"I only have one question about all that," said Regina, ignoring the way Harry was inhaling his trifle as though he expected to be kicked out at any moment. "What was he to you? Was it just sex? Or did you care for him?"
Harry was sure he had never been so mortified. But to be fair, no one had bothered to ask him that question before. And because his reputation with Regina Woodward was surely already ruined, he didn't see the harm in giving her an honest answer. "I thought I loved him," Harry muttered.
"Good."
"Sorry, did you say good?"
"Yes," said Regina. "That means you aren't the kind of imbecile who would throw away a promising career for a cute piece of tail; you are simply a young and particularly idiotic romantic. And, having made that mistake once already with disastrous consequences, you will not be likely to make it again in future. Good."
Harry bristled. "Mistake? You mean falling for a man?"
"I mean dating in the workplace, you daft boy," Regina snapped. "It always ends badly. Always. I trust you've learned your lesson."
"Does this mean I get to be a spy?"
Regina waved a teaspoon at him threateningly. "It means you get a chance," she said. "Please don't think it will be easy. The other knights and Arthur will each propose their own candidates, and they will be stiff competition for you. You will be trained and tested. The process is rather grueling, and depending on the mix of candidates it can last upwards of six months."
"Six months?!"
"We do not choose Kingsman knights lightly." Regina slid a card across the table to Harry. It was for a tailor shop on Savile Row. "Think it over. And if you're still interested, meet me there tomorrow."
The rest of tea passed pleasantly enough, and they didn't speak of Kingsman again until the dishes were cleared away and Regina had sent one of her staff to fetch Harry's coat. Then Harry ventured, "Aunt Regina, I don't understand. How do you know that, instead of meeting you at the tailor tomorrow, I won't go tell everyone your secret?"
Regina stood on tip-toe to give him a kiss goodbye on the cheek. "Harry, I've spent most of my adult life cultivating the perfect persona of an eccentric old spinster who's so rich that she barely has to wipe her own arse anymore. Tell whoever you like."
She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "They won't believe you."
-----
The dormitory was a single, sparse room with two rows of beds and a low wall separating them from a cluster of curtain-less showers and toilets. Everything was concrete, metal, and glass. It felt less like a training camp for potential spies and more like a prison cell.
Perhaps that was just Harry's expectations at play. After all, the luscious Kingsman tailor shop, the sleek underground train, and the staggering base with its garage and arsenal had readied Harry for palatial accommodations. Instead, he'd been left alone in a room that would have been better suited to a submarine than to a mansion.
The sound of the door handle turning echoed in the concrete box of a room. Harry turned just in time to see a cute, oval face framed by a tumble of brown ringlets peek in from behind the door. "Oh, is this the right place?" the girl asked.
"I think so," said Harry, mustering up a cheerful smile and offering her his hand. "If you're looking for Detention Block B, that is. I'm Harry Hart."
She laughed as she shook his hand. "It is rather gloomy, isn't it? Abigail Winter. I'm Arthur's proposal. You?"
"Percival's." Aunt Regina had told him her code name on the train ride over, and warned him not to go throwing around her real name with people who weren't yet confirmed Kingsman agents.
"Ah, the woman?" said Abigail brightly. "Arthur's told me about her. He's a bit grumpy that she's next in line for his job, but I admire her. It takes guts to stick it out as the only woman in an old boy's club like Kingsman. Watch this – I'll bet you ten quid all the other proposals who show up are men."
If Harry had taken that bet, he would have lost. The next two through the door were a freckle-faced strawberry blond who introduced himself as Fred Lyons, and a broad-shouldered black man with a serious expression and the name Garrett Richardson.
"I've been working for Kingsman for years," said Fred when he overheard Harry and Abigail talking about how they'd taken the news that their mentors were international spies. "No one had to break anything to me except that I had a shot to move up to the big leagues."
"How did you work for Kingsman if you weren't a knight?" Abigail asked.
Fred pointed at the wall in the direction of the way they'd all come to get there. "You saw the giant hangar full of every weapon and vehicle known to man, yeah? Who do you think takes care of all that? Behind the Kingsman knights there's a small army of support staff, from the guy who changes the oil in the sports cars to the man who runs the tailor shop on Savile Row."
"And what was your contribution?" said Harry.
With a grin, Fred pulled a silver necklace from inside the front of his shirt. Dangling on the chain was a steel grenade pin. "Demolitions," he said.
"You were military, then?" said Garrett. He was a big man, but his voice was surprisingly high and gentle. He was the oldest of the group by far. Harry estimated that he was close to thirty.
"Nah," said Fred with a grin. "Just always liked things that went boom. You?"
"Royal Marines," Garrett replied. "I was a sniper."
"It doesn't count if you're sniping on a range, you know," said a haughty voice as another candidate swaggered in through the door. He was almost as tall as Garrett, with auburn hair and dimples that showed when he smiled. The dimples would have been more charming if his smile had been kinder. "If you've seen any real action, then you're even older than you look."
The four of them turned to meet the newcomer. Harry was about to speak up, but Garrett beat him to it. His voice was just as calm as before but his diction became very precise, the same way Regina's sometimes did when she was speaking to an idiot who was not worth the time it would take to explain to them what an idiot they were.
"I was with the United Nations peacekeeping force in Cyprus," said Garrett. "So I've seen a bit."
As the last few candidates straggled in, Harry, Abigail, Fred, and Garrett gravitated off to one side of the room, separating themselves from the others. Harry finally managed to relax for the first time since stepping out of the cab on Savile Row. He liked his little group. He could even see himself living in this ugly dormitory for the next six months, if it meant sharing it with them. He laughed at Fred's jokes and nodded at Abigail's observations, and listened in on the introductions going on across the room just enough to learn that the name of the dimpled boy who had tried to provoke Garret was Alan Oldridge.
"Is that all of us?" Harry wondered aloud, glancing around the room.
"Should be," said Abigail. "There are eight of us. Eight knights, plus Arthur, minus the knight we're meant to replace. Eight proposals."
"Then who is he?" said Fred, pointing. There was one more person coming through the door.
He was young. Possibly the youngest in the room, but he entered with more confidence than anyone else who had walked through that door. He was tall but lean, just this side of gangly. He had a high forehead, a strong jaw, and black hair cropped short. He would have looked very serious with his wool jacket and steel clipboard, except that he was wearing the same kind of ridiculous glasses that Regina had worn yesterday and they were making his ears stick out a little.
Harry swallowed hard. His tie felt tighter than it had a moment ago. Shit, he thought.
"Who proposed him?" someone snickered from the other side of the room.
The young man with the clipboard and the ears took a long look around the room, surveying each face in turn. Then he said, "Fall in," with enough authority to stop all conversation in the room mid-word.
Garrett and Abigail, along with three of the candidates from outside Harry's little group, sprang to attention with the alacrity of military training. Harry jumped to join them in line, and Fred scampered after. Alan Oldridge took a second to look around incredulously before reluctantly following suit.
"My name is Merlin," said the newcomer. "To answer your first two questions, no, that is not my real name. And yes, you do have to call me Merlin anyway."
He had a Scottish accent thick enough to drown in. Shit.
Merlin went on, "You are here to compete for the title of Galahad, and I am here to oversee the selection process. Until you are confirmed as Galahad, you don't report to Kingsman. You don't report to the knight who proposed you. You don't report to Arthur. You report to me."
Shit.
Abigail tapped Harry with her elbow, a concerned look on her face. Harry realized that his mouth was open.
"The next several months – if you last that long – will be the most demanding and competitive of your lives. Your safety is not guaranteed. And if you prevail, your reward will be a life of dangerous assignments and absolute secrecy. Speaking of secrecy..."
Here Merlin stepped forward and locked eyes with each candidate in turn. Fred smiled at Merlin nervously. Alan flashed his eyebrows and smirked. Those who had been in the military stared forward and didn't meet his gaze. Harry couldn't stop staring at Merlin's clavicle peeking out from above his collar. Shit.
"Kingsman is a covert organization. Its ability to operate within the seams of society and government relies upon a code of silence and trust on the part of everyone privy to even the most trivial of its secrets.
"If you do not perform at or above the level of your peers in the tests, your candidacy will be revoked and you will be sent home. If at any time you break this aforementioned code of trust, your candidacy will be revoked... and the consequences will be much direr than a one-way train ticket. Is that understood?"
A chorus of, "Yes, sir," came from the military set. Fred said, "Yeah, okay." Harry forgot to say anything.
"Good," said Merlin. "Fall out."
As he turned to leave, Harry couldn't help but notice the long legs and shapely rear beneath Merlin's immaculately-tailored trousers, until the door closed behind him and Harry was left staring at the wall.
Shit shit shit.
The buzz of conversation resumed. No one seemed to notice Harry's consternation except for Abigail, who looked up at him with a gentle smile that was threatening to break into a laugh. "He's quite cute, isn't he?" she remarked quietly.
Alan overheard. "Girls," he scoffed. "Only one thing on their minds."
Harry stared at the door, his heart pounding, Regina's warning about making the same mistake twice ringing in his ears, and wondered what he had done to anger a vengeful God.