Chapter Text
The King is on the third day of a manic phase when the messenger arrives.
Reynolds has just managed to coax some food into him, thinking: rice pudding, not too bad as an energy source, we've had worse - when the messenger finds them in the parlour and delivers his out-of-breath message.
"The Queen is unhurt, everything is under control, sir."
Reynolds blinks. The King looks up briefly from his position on the floor, then returns to his drawing.
"Explain," Reynold says.
"Er," says the young man, barely out of his teens by the look of it.
Reynolds grits his teeth.
"You have heard about the attack on the Queen, sir?" the messenger inquires, quavering slightly under Reynolds' glare. "Foiled attack! sir."
"Pretend I have not," Reynolds says archly.
"... than that which hath no foil to set it off," the King mutters. The messenger's eyes flit to him, but he has clearly been well instructed (in this regard at least), and he focuses quickly on Reynolds again.
"An armed intruder entered Buckingham Palace at three o'clock this afternoon, sir. He set upon the Queen in the royal gardens, but was quickly apprehended by her majesty's entourage. A shot was fired, but she was not harmed."
Reynolds feels ice flooding his stomach. There is something the boy is not saying.
"Someone was," he says.
"The Queen's man, sir."
It takes every single one of Reynolds' years of training to retain his outward calm.
"What is his status."
"Critical, sir. The doctor is with him now."
Something must show in Reynolds' face now, as the messenger's face creases into a frown, and the King, happening to look up in this moment, gets up quickly and embraces him.
(He's been very tactile, lately. Reynolds is having a hard time with it.)
"Light in darkness, comfort in despair," the King whispers.
(The Shakespeare quotes are a little more difficult to handle than being touched all the time.)
"Yes, your majesty," Reynolds replies automatically, leading the King towards his bed and depositing him gently on it. He turns towards the messenger.
"Have someone provide us with regular updates on the Queen's man's status," he says, hoping the wording and his tone are giving nothing away.
"Yes, sir. Should I, er," the messenger falters. Reynolds glares at him.
"Any message to convey to the Queen, sir?" the boy squeaks.
"Tell her we have been informed of the situation and shall send a message when the King is once again inclined to receive visitors," Reynolds says.
It is the code he agreed on with Brimsley when they moved the Queen and the children back to Buckingham Palace one year ago.
Oh, God. Brimsley.
An agonizing thirteen hours later, the Queen arrives at Kew and makes her way to the library, where Reynolds is overseeing the King's recovery.
"Charlotte," the King greets his wife, looking exhausted, but as always overjoyed to see her. "How did you know I was better? We had not even got round to sending a message." He looks back over his shoulder. "Had we, Reynolds?"
"No, your majesty. I was going to give it a few more hours."
"That is not what we agreed on, Reynolds," the Queen says sternly, pulling her husband down onto the settee with her.
"Your majesty, with respect, the King's recovery cannot yet be deemed permanent."
"He doesn't know if I've fully regained my senses, my love," the King smiles wryly. "We wouldn't want to inconvenience you for nothing." He frowns suddenly. "Especially not after the scare you had yesterday."
"Ah," she says, glaring disapprovingly at Reynolds. "You've heard."
"A messenger came from Buckingham Palace and informed us while the King and I were in the parlour," Reynolds explains.
"And I was already halfway back in this world," the King grins. "You cannot shield me from everything, Charlotte."
"No. I suppose not." She purses her lips, frowning, which the King joyfully misinterprets and kisses her. This draws a little chuckle out of her.
There is more necking. Reynolds tries his best not to combust internally.
(How much trouble would it get him into if he just asked the question himself?)
Finally, the King asks, "How is Brimsley?"
"They will not tell me much," she grumbles. "He is stable for now, apparently. They have removed the bullet, but he is still under."
"Well, that's something." The King lies down in her lap, allowing his wife to stroke his hair, and Reynolds stands in the corner, quivering.
The King asks her to recount the event in detail. She tells a harrowing tale of a madman come to 'end the line' or some such, and of an heroic rescue by her man.
"Jumped in front of me as though he were a soldier," she tuts. "I shall have to give him a severe telling-off when he wakes up."
Reynolds knows her well enough by now to hear the worry behind her gruff tone.
"Well. Who knew he had it in him," says the King lightly.
(Reynolds did.)
"Speaking of which," the Queen says, her tone suddenly full of amused excitement. "You don't happen to know someone on either of our staffs called Frances?"
The King's eyes flit to Reynolds. Their eyes meet briefly before Reynolds resumes staring at the wall, trying not to bat an eyelid.
"Why do you ask?" the King says, in the same light tone, but Reynolds can still feel his eyes on him.
"Well, it is the oddest thing," the Queen says, rummaging for something in her voluminous skirts. "He was half-delirious, the poor thing, just before they operated and I was shooed out of the doctor's chambers." She sounds disapproving again. "As if I have never seen blood before."
"They do tend to underestimate you, my love," the King says, smiling.
"Or anyone having gone through the pain of childbirth," she comments tartly.
"Well said, my fierce Amazon," the King says, and she slaps him lightly on the cheek.
(Reynolds normally finds their banter charming. Now, he wishes they would hurry up a little.)
"So, there he is," she continues, "half-conscious, in an opioid haze, and he grabs my hand, gives me this ring and says 'Tell Frances: a lifetime'."
Reynolds' heart stops.
He can feel the King's gaze on him, but he cannot look at him.
He cannot look at the ring the Queen is holding up, for fear that the King will catch his gaze. He can only stand there, trembling, praying that his knees won't give out.
There is, of course, no reprieve for him. Not really.
"Reynolds, come have a look at this," the Queen commands, and he starts forward.
It is Brimsley's mother's ring. The one she gave to him before she died, in the hope that he would one day give it to his bride. Brimsley had shown it to him once, chuckling, saying that if only she knew that any 'bride' of his could at best carry it on the smallest finger. He had almost looked, then, as though he might suggest Reynolds wear it on the very same one; but then they had been swept up in their preparations for the departure to Buckingham, and had not spoken of it again.
"Do you know anyone named Frances, Reynolds?" she inquires. "One of the maids, perhaps?"
The King is still looking at him. Reynolds is still avoiding his gaze.
"I can make inquiries, your majesty," Reynolds says. "Although perhaps..."
"Yes?"
"We might wait until he regains consciousness, your majesty. Perhaps he would not approve of being held to something he said while on opium."
"Ah." She purses her lips. He knows she likes to meddle, as has been amply demonstrated by her avid interest in the debutantes.
If they are very lucky, she will make an exception for the hero of the hour.
"I suppose so," she allows, and he breathes out.
"We could go there together tomorrow," the King suggests, and Reynolds is finally forced to look at him. There is a small smile playing around his lips. "If Reynolds deems me well enough to travel."
"We shall see tomorrow, your majesty," says Reynolds. The King inclines his head, that smile still on his face.
"Honestly, George, the way you let your man order you around..." says the Queen, narrowing her eyes at Reynolds, but he knows she does not mean it. She has, thankfully, come to understand over the years that he knows the King's episodes, and recoveries, best of all, and defers to his judgment. Mostly.
The morrow, thankfully, sees the King much improved, and after a long, drawn-out breakfast (Reynolds tries not to count the minutes, much as last night which he mostly spent staring at the ceiling), they finally leave.
"Would you like to go see him now?" the King mutters as they walk towards Buckingham Palace's nurseries. The Queen is hurrying on ahead, and Reynolds has fallen into stride with the King, as he sometimes does these days.
He hesitates.
"I shall stay until the first onslaught is over, your majesty."
The King chuckles. "They are my children, Reynolds, not a foreign army."
"Yes, your majesty. And there are eight of them."
"Little Ernest is only a baby."
"Very well. Seven who can walk, and more importantly, jump onto your person, and besiege you with questions or babble nonsense at you."
At this, the King laughs outright, prompting the Queen to look around curiously.
"Reynolds thinks I cannot handle my own children, Charlotte," he chuckles.
She smiles, but shares a knowing glance with Reynolds.
"Remember what happened at Edward's birthday, George," she says softly. The King sighs, but protests no longer.
The first onslaught is much as Reynolds predicted. The King bears it all remarkably well, this time, even when little Charlotte and Augusta squabble over who gets to show him her drawings first, and need to be separated by the nanny.
Reynolds, having had the smallest child foisted on his person as usual, stands by the wall rocking Baby Ernest and watching the King like a hawk.
Finally, it is the Queen who comes to relieve him of his charge. He is briefly surprised (she never holds her children for very long) until she says "Check on Brimsley for me, will you?"
He looks at her in alarm, but sees no suspicion in her eyes.
"I think we can deem the King well and truly recovered for now, do you not think?" she adds, watching her husband.
"Very well, your majesty," Reynolds says, and excuses himself.
"You may take a break," Reynolds says to the footman standing guard outside of the doctor's chambers. The man is new, and hesitates.
"I am Reynolds," he says, trying to reign in his impatience. "The King's Man. The Queen sent me here to check her man's status."
"Of course, sir, Mr Reynolds," the footman stammers, mortified, and scurries away.
He lets himself in as quietly as possible, but soon sees that he needn't have bothered: Brimsley is still very much under. Reynolds sighs, and draws up a chair next to the bed, facing the door.
"Jumped in front of her like a soldier," he mutters, studying Brimsley's slack expression. "Honestly. What were you thinking?"
Not much, of course. He knows that. Brimsley acted on instinct, because he is one of the best. Reynolds knows their roles would have been reversed, had the King been the one under attack.
He glances at the door, then lays a hand on Brimsley's.
A ray of sunlight filters through a gap in the curtains, illuminating Brimsley's forehead and turning his hair a rich dark gold.
"A lifetime," Reynolds breathes.