Her Majesty The Queen Quotes

Regarding Her Majesty, Queen Levana, has she or any of the Lunar court commented on the escape of the convict?" Kai's jaw tensed. "Oh, she's had a thing or two to say about it.

Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair gentlema. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschole with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs VErschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

Good grief! They're going to call us inside soon, and Sticky hasn't even met Madge yet!" "Who's Madge?" Sticky asked. "Her Majesty the Queen!

Her Majesty Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, had a lamp shade on her head. Again.

Tara. I'm a vampire," Pearl said. "Yeah, whatever, and I'm queen of the sea." "Your Marine Majesty, I'm a vampire," Pearl said. Concentrating, she slid her fangs out. "Tara. Tara!" She curled back her lips to expose the points. "See" Tara screamed. "I won't hurt you," Pearl said. Calm down. Sheesh." Tara continued to scream. Pearl considered biting her merely to shut her up. Regrettably that would be counter productive. Studying her nails, she waited for Tara to quit screaming. She noticed that Tara didn't try to exit the car, which was an interesting choice. "You aren't running away," Pearl said. "Duh, it's raining outside," Tara said.

Thanks to His Majesty," the magus said, and my father seemed startled at the correction but not displeased. He looked thoroughly satisfied and very much like Ina when she has all her embroidery threads arranged to her satisfaction. He looked so pleased that I checked over my shoulder to see if there might be someone else behind me who had drawn his attention.

When she finally lifted herself up, she was Princess Beatrice no longer. She had become Her Majesty Beatrice Regina, Queen of America, and long may she reign.

Ashryver eyes met her own, and she touched the face that was the other side of her fair coin. "For Terrasen," she said to him "For our family." "For Marion." "For us." Slowly Aedion drew his blade and knelt, his head bowed as he lifted the Sword of Orynth. "Ten years of shadows, but no longer. Light up the darkness, Majesty." She did not have room in her heart for tears, would not allow or yield to them. Aelin took her father's sword from him, its weight a steady, solid reassurance. Aedion rose, returning to his place beside Rowan. She looked at them, at the three males who meant everything—more than everything. Then she smiled with every last shred of courage, of desperation, of hope for the glimmer of that glorious future. "Let's go rattle the stars.

Majesty. The word seemed to ripple through her. “I haven’t been crowned, Lazarus.” “No matter, Lady. I see the queenship in you, and I never saw it in your mother, not one day of her life.

Do you always eat with so many of your Guard, Majesty?” “Usually.” “Are security concerns so great?” “Not at all. I prefer to eat with my Guard.” “Perhaps when you begin a family, that will change.” Kelsea narrowed her eyes as Milla began to ladle soup into her bowl. “My Guard are my family.

Queen Alyss, my guards have discovered something you should see." Her face had relaxed at the sight of him, but her brow at once contracted, her lips thinned with tension. We've found evidence of suspicious activity in the palace," he said. What sort of activity?" You might want to step this way and see for youself. I apologize in advance for you having to set foot in a gaurdsman's quaters." He led her into his rooms. The boyish portrait of Sir Justice, the fire crystals in the hearth, the elegantly arrayed table: Alyss blinked in puzzlement. What is all this?" My best guess, You Majesty, is that it's breakfast, but I can't be sure until we taste it.

The King of Cadare cannot have an alliance on an equal footing with a woman. Marriage ensures that Your Majesty is seen to submit her will to my master in all things.” Mace moved in sharply, blocking off Kelsea’s right side. She blinked in surprise, for she had sensed no threat from the ambassador or his guards. It took a few moments for her to see it: Mace had actually moved to protect the ambassador. Some of Kelsea’s anger ebbed away then; she smiled at Mace, and felt a rush of affection when he smiled back.

You should address me as Queen Lenora or Your Majesty.” Another should I hover over her. “But you’re not, are you?” She lifts her chin to look up at me. “Not what?” “My Majesty,” I say softly. I drop my eyes, dragging them over every inch of her, all her delectable swells and valleys. And she is glorious to look at. “At least…not yet.

I don’t care,” Nevada said. “I want blue lilacs.” And I want to fly away from here, but that wouldn’t happen anytime soon, would it? “Anyway, I have to get back to the office,” Nevada said. “Text me if anything.” “The queen has dismissed us,” Arabella announced. I dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.” “I hate you guys.” “We hate you back,” Arabella told her. “We hated you before the wedding.” “Before it was cool to hate you.” “Get out!” Nevada growled.

Repo cast a narrowed glare over me. “You’re saying that Banana Cake girl—” “She’s a queen, not a girl.” He huffed impatiently. “Her majesty of bananas is your woman?” I gave an affirmative head bob. The three men traded stares, silently communicating with their eyeballs. This time I didn’t mind

Well, Monsieur Laporte placed her near her Majesty in order that our poor queen might at least have someone in whom she could place confidence, abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, betrayed as she is by everybody." "Ah, ah!

He was one of those men, moreover, who possess almost every gift except the gift of the power to use them;

give the devil rope, and he will hang himself.

What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked. She looked nervously down at the papers in her hand even though I knew for a fact she had memorized every word. “When I was eleven I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when the recruiters came to see me. They showed me brochures and told me they were impressed by my test scores and asked if I was ready to be challenged. And I said yes. Because that was what a Gallagher Girl was to me then, a student at the toughest school in the world.” She took a deep breath and talked on. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked again. “When I was thirteen I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when Dr. Fibs allowed me to start doing my own experiments in the lab. I could go anywhere—make anything. Do anything my mind could dream up. Because I was a Gallagher Girl. And, to me, that meant I was the future.” Liz took another deep breath. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” This time, when Liz asked it, her voice cracked. “When I was seventeen I stood on a dark street in Washington, D.C., and watched one Gallagher Girl literally jump in front of a bullet to save the life of another. I saw a group of women gather around a girl whom they had never met, telling the world that if any harm was to come to their sister, it had to go through them first.” Liz straightened. She no longer had to look down at her paper as she said, “What is a Gallagher Girl? I’m eighteen now, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t really know the answer to that question. Maybe she is destined to be our first international graduate and take her rightful place among Her Majesty’s Secret Service with MI6.” I glanced to my right and, call me crazy, but I could have sworn Rebecca Baxter was crying. “Maybe she is someone who chooses to give back, to serve her life protecting others just as someone once protected her.” Macey smirked but didn’t cry. I got the feeling that Macey McHenry might never cry again. “Who knows?” Liz asked. “Maybe she’s an undercover journalist.” I glanced at Tina Walters. “An FBI agent.” Eva Alvarez beamed. “A code breaker.” Kim Lee smiled. “A queen.” I thought of little Amirah and knew somehow that she’d be okay. “Maybe she’s even a college student.” Liz looked right at me. “Or maybe she’s so much more.” Then Liz went quiet for a moment. She too looked up at the place where the mansion used to stand. “You know, there was a time when I thought that the Gallagher Academy was made of stone and wood, Grand Halls and high-tech labs. When I thought it was bulletproof, hack-proof, and…yes…fireproof. And I stand before you today happy for the reminder that none of those things are true. Yes, I really am. Because I know now that a Gallagher Girl is not someone who draws her power from that building. I know now with scientific certainty that it is the other way around.” A hushed awe descended over the already quiet crowd as she said this. Maybe it was the gravity of her words and what they meant, but for me personally, I like to think it was Gilly looking down, smiling at us all. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked one final time. “She’s a genius, a scientist, a heroine, a spy. And now we are at the end of our time at school, and the one thing I know for certain is this: A Gallagher Girl is whatever she wants to be.” Thunderous, raucous applause filled the student section. Liz smiled and wiped her eyes. She leaned close to the microphone. “And, most of all, she is my sister.

I’ve long suspected something about the Queen that no one else has: despite her steely exterior, Her Majesty, Queen Lenora of Wessco has a soft spot. It may be small and rarely used . . . but the bugger’s there.

Red couldn’t be less interested. “I wonder what baboon they replaced Little Bo with—they deserve whatever oaf they put on the throne—” She suddenly stopped talking and her eyes grew so large they took up half her face. “Wait one moment; did you just address me as Your Majesty?” Froggy and Conner shared an excited smile. Red’s hands started shaking and she jumped up and down. Had all her dreams come true? Had her people given her back the throne? “Was Red re-elected queen?” Conner asked. “Yes, am I the baboon? Am I the oaf they deserve?” she asked as she anxiously bounced. “No, ma’am,” the third Little Pig said. “I was speaking to Prince Charlie.” Froggy turned a pale shade of green. “Me?” he asked. “I was elected?

Alizeh was no longer smiling. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might bruise. "What shall I say, then?" "Your name. I want to hear it from your lips." She took a breath. Released it slowly. "My name," she said, "is Alizeh. I am Alizeh of Saam, the daughter of Siavosh and Kiana. Though you may know me better as the lost queen of Arya." He stiffened at that, went silent. Finally he moved, one hand capturing her face, his thumb grazing her cheek in a fleeting moment, there and gone again. His voice was a whisper when he said, "Do you wish to know my name, too, Your Majesty?" "Kamran," she said softly, "I already know who you are." She was unprepared when he kissed her, for the darkness had denied her a warning before their lips met, before he claimed her mouth with a need that stole from her an anguished sound, a faint cry that shocked her.

But you won’t abdicate." Of course not. It’s my duty to go on, to maintain the line. I can’t possibly fail in that. It’s as if you and I were throwing a ball back and forth to establish a record, and had been doing so for a millennium. You cannot drop a ball that has remained airborne through good effort for most of a thousand years. You cannot stop an unlikely heart that has been beating for so long. I would rather die than betray continuity, for its own sake if for nothing else. And Britain needs a king, just as it needs motormen and cooks and a prime minister. Just as it needs soldiers who will die for it if they must. It’s my job, or it will be, but you should know that I’ve never wanted it. I was only born to it, as if with a deformity, to which I hope I can respond with grace." Fredericka had been running her finger over the carpet, tracing a pattern in the way children do when they have learnt something overwhelming and are moved, but cannot say so. Freddy expected her to look up, with tears, and that in this moment she might have begun the long and arduous process of becoming a queen. She was so beautiful. To embrace her now, with high emotion flowing from her physical majesty, was all he wanted in the world. Her finger stopped moving, and she turned her eyes to him. Freddy?" Yes?" he answered. What’s raw egg? I read a recipe in She that called for a cup of raw egg. What is that?" After a long silence, Freddy asked, "Which part of the formulation escapes you? Egg? Raw? The link between the two?" The two what?" Fredericka?" Yes, Freddy?" Would you like to go dancing?" Oh, yes Freddy!" Come then. We will.

such an ill-cooked roast at the future queen’s wedding?” he cries. The princess-cook appears before her father, but she is so changed he does not recognize her. “I would not serve you salt, Your Majesty,” she explains. “For did you not exile your youngest daughter for saying that it was of value?” At her words, the king realizes that not only is she his daughter—she is, in fact, the daughter who loves him best. And what then? The eldest daughter and the middle sister have been living with the king all this time. One has been in favor one week, the other the next. They have been driven apart by their father’s constant comparisons. Now the youngest has returned, the king yanks the kingdom from his eldest, who has just been married. She is not to be queen after all. The elder sisters rage. At first, the youngest basks in fatherly love. Before long, however, she realizes the king is demented and power-mad. She is to be queen, but she is also stuck tending to a crazy old tyrant for the rest of her days. She will not leave him, no matter how sick he becomes. Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt? Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom? It is hard for her to tell the difference. 17 THE FALL AFTER the European trip,

A rule which I cannot sufficiently recommend is, never to permit people to speak on subjects concerning yourself or your affairs, without your having yourself desired them to do so. The moment a person behaves improperly on this subject, change the conversation, and make the individual feel that he has made a mistake.... People will certainly try to speak to you on your own personal affairs; decline it boldly, and they will leave you alone....

ONCE UPON A time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. As he grew old, he began to wonder which should inherit the kingdom, since none had married and he had no heir. The king decided to ask his daughters to demonstrate their love for him. To the eldest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him as much as all the treasure in the kingdom. To the middle princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him with the strength of iron. To the youngest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” This youngest princess thought for a long time before answering. Finally she said she loved him as meat loves salt. “Then you do not love me at all,” the king said. He threw his daughter from the castle and had the bridge drawn up behind her so that she could not return. Now, this youngest princess goes into the forest with not so much as a coat or a loaf of bread. She wanders through a hard winter, taking shelter beneath trees. She arrives at an inn and gets hired as assistant to the cook. As the days and weeks go by, the princess learns the ways of the kitchen. Eventually she surpasses her employer in skill and her food is known throughout the land. Years pass, and the eldest princess comes to be married. For the festivities, the cook from the inn makes the wedding meal. Finally a large roast pig is served. It is the king’s favorite dish, but this time it has been cooked with no salt. The king tastes it. Tastes it again. “Who would dare to serve such an ill-cooked roast at the future queen’s wedding?” he cries. The princess-cook appears before her father, but she is so changed he does not recognize her. “I would not serve you salt, Your Majesty,” she explains. “For did you not exile your youngest daughter for saying that it was of value?” At her words, the king realizes that not only is she his daughter—she is, in fact, the daughter who loves him best. And what then? The eldest daughter and the middle sister have been living with the king all this time. One has been in favor one week, the other the next. They have been driven apart by their father’s constant comparisons. Now the youngest has returned, the king yanks the kingdom from his eldest, who has just been married. She is not to be queen after all. The elder sisters rage. At first, the youngest basks in fatherly love. Before long, however, she realizes the king is demented and power-mad. She is to be queen, but she is also stuck tending to a crazy old tyrant for the rest of her days. She will not leave him, no matter how sick he becomes. Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt? Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom? It is hard for her to tell the difference.

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; Silence accompany'd; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

She sleeps well, she’s got very good legs and she can stand for a long time. The Queen is as strong as a yak.

Greatness? I have tasted that cup within the last twelve months; do I not know that it is sweet in the mouth, but bitter in the belly?

Ha! Hold my brain; be still my beating heart.

Address my wife properly,” I said through a sneer. “Majesty, My Queen, Goddess—whatever you wish, but you will address her as she deserves,

Tsunami spotted Snail and Herring among the guards. Their eyes darted anxiously from side to side, as if they were wondering how they were still alive. Because Mother wants to make a spectacle of them, Tsunami guessed. Coral was probably waiting for the right moment to punish them in public, the way she’d punished Tortoise. Well, two can play the spectacle game, Your Majesty. “MOTHER!” Tsunami declared dramatically as the waitstaff set bowls of soup in front of each dragon. Beside her, Whirlpool jumped and nearly tipped his bowl onto himself. Even Queen Coral looked startled. “I have something DREADFULLY SHOCKING to tell you!” Tsunami announced. She wanted this to be loud, so every dragon could witness it. “Oh?” said Coral. “Could we discuss it after breakfast? In a civilized fashion?” “NO,” Tsunami said, louder than before. “This is TOO SHOCKING.” Even SeaWings not invited to the feast were starting to peer out of their caves and poke their heads out of the lake to hear what was going on. “Well, perhaps —” Coral started. “WOULD YOU BELIEVE,” Tsunami said, “that my friends — the DRAGONETS OF DESTINY, remember — were CHAINED UP? And STARVED? In YOUR CAVES? By YOUR DRAGONS?” “What?” Coral said, flapping her wings. She looked thoroughly alarmed, but Tsunami couldn’t tell whether that was because the news actually surprised her or because she was being confronted openly with what she’d done. “I KNOW!” Tsunami practically bellowed. “It’s UNBELIEVABLE. I’m sure you didn’t know anything about it, of course.” “Of course,” Coral said in a hurry. “I would never treat any dragonets that way! Especially my dearest daughter’s dearest friends. Who are part of the prophecy and everything.” “And I’m sure you’ll want to punish the dragons who disobeyed you by treating my friends so terribly,” Tsunami said. “Right? Like, for instance, the one who lied to you about keeping them well fed?” She shot a glare at Lagoon, who froze with a sea snail halfway to her mouth, suddenly realizing what was going on. “Absolutely,” said the queen. “Guards! Throw Lagoon in one of the underwater dungeons!” “But —” Lagoon said. “But I was only —” “Next time you’ll obey my orders,” said the queen. A stripe quickly flashed under her wings, but Tsunami spotted it, and it was one Riptide had taught her. Silence. Oh, Mother, Tsunami thought sadly. “Can’t I even —” Lagoon said, reaching wistfully for her cauldron of soup as the guards pulled her away. “No breakfast for you,” the queen ordered. “Think about how that feels as you sit in my dungeon.” Tsunami was fairly sure Lagoon wouldn’t actually suffer very much. Queen Coral would have her back at Council meetings before long. But Tsunami wasn’t done. “And

Eric had fang showing. "Hello, Eric," Quinn said calmly. His deep voice rumbled along my spine. "Sookie, you look good enough to eat." He smiled at me, and the tremors along my spine spread into another area entirely. I would never have believed that in Eric's presence I could think another man was attractive. I'd have been wrong to think so. "You look very nice, too," I said, trying not to beam like an idiot. It was not cool to drool. Eric said, "What have you been telling Sookie, Quinn?" The two tall men looked at each other. I didn't believe I was the source of their animosity. I was a symptom, not the disease. Something lay underneath this. "I've been telling Sookie that the queen requires Sookie's presence at the conference as part of her party, and that the queen's summons supercedes yours," Quinn said flatly. "Since when has the queen given orders through a shifter?" Eric said, contempt flattening his voice. "Since this shifter performed a valuable service for her in the line of business," Quinn answered, with no hesitation. "Mr. Cataliades suggested to Her Majesty that I might be helpful in a diplomatic capacity, and my partners were glad to give me extra time to perform any duties she might give me." I wasn't totally sure I was following this, but I got the gist of it. Eric was incensed, to use a good entry from my Word of the Day calendar. In fact, his eyes were almost throwing sparks, he was so angry. "This woman has been mine, and she will be mine," he said, in tones so definite I thought about checking my rear end for a brand.

Blow freshly, freshlier yet, thou good trade-wind, of whom it is written that He makes the winds His angels, ministering breaths to the heirs of His salvation. Blow freshlier yet, and save, if not me from death, yet her from worse than death. Blow on, and land me at her feet, to call the lost lamb home, and die!

To these qualities must be added one which is of great importance, this is discretion; humble as it seems, it has often brought about successes in which talent failed and genius did not succeed. Discretion in the great affairs of the world does wonders, and safety depends frequently and is chiefly derived from it....

The Colonel looked at this strange fashion and asked in broken Urdu, ‘Well? You Muslim?’ ‘Half,’ said Ghalib. ‘What does that mean?’ asked the Colonel. ‘I drink wine,’ said Ghalib, ‘but I don’t eat pork.’ The Colonel laughed, and Ghalib then showed him the letter which he had received from the Minister for India [sic] in acknowledgement of the ode to Her Majesty the Queen which Ghalib has sent. The Colonel said, ‘After the victory of government forces why did you not present yourself at the Ridge?’ Ghalib replied, ‘My rank required that I should have four palanquin bearers, but all four of them ran away and left me, so I could not come.

For Terrasen,” she said to him. “For our family.” “For Marion.” “For us.” Slowly, Aedion drew his blade and knelt, his head bowed as he lifted the Sword of Orynth. “Ten years of shadows, but no longer. Light up the darkness, Majesty.” She did not have room in her heart for tears, would not allow or yield to them. Aelin took her father’s sword from him, its weight a steady, solid reassurance. Aedion rose, returning to his place beside Rowan. She looked at them, at the three males who meant everything—more than everything. Then she smiled with every last shred of courage, of desperation, of hope for the glimmer of that glorious future. “Let’s go rattle the stars.

Ellie stops walking and turns to the display in front of her. It’s a bed—four-poster canopy, ornate and curtained with intricate, gold-trimmed, royal-blue and purple fabric. She reads the description off the plaque on the wall. “The bed of His Majesty King Reginald the Second and Queen Margaret Anastasia of Wessco. That’s Queen Lenora’s parents, right?” “Yeah.” She gazes back at the bed with a longing sigh. “Wow. I can’t imagine living like this every day. Servants and castles and crowns—how perfect would that be?” She points at the opulent bed. “Queen Lenora could have been conceived on this bed, right here!” I flinch at the thought. “Let’s not speak of it.

Sir, this is absurd,” he said. “You have the wrong Greenwood. There must be a lord or nobleman with the same surname. I have no association with whoever organised this meeting.” The guard’s face darkened. “This meeting has been organised by Her Majesty, the Queen. Unfortunately, there has been no mistake. Now, be seated and be silent.

the age in which the Romish Church had made marriage a legalized tyranny, and the laity, by a natural and pardonable revulsion, had exalted adultery into a virtue and a science? That all love was lust; that all women had their price; that profligacy, though an ecclesiastical sin, was so pardonable, if not necessary, as to be hardly a moral sin,

It seemed as if the very foundations of democracy were being undermined in ways she hadn't seen since the war, which was longer than many of her subjects' lifetimes. Like everyone else, she felt they were all on the brink of something they didn't fully understand, grasping around to hold on to whatever they believed, praying that it would stand.

When we pull back into the castle courtyard, James is waiting. And he does not look happy. Actually he looks like a blond Hulk . . . right before he goes smash. Sarah sees it too. “He’s miffed.” “Yep.” We get out of the car and she turns so fast there’s a breeze. “I should go find Penny. ’Bye.” I call after her. “Chicken!” She just waves her hand over her shoulder. Slowly, I approach him. Like an explorer, deep in the jungles of the Amazon, making first contact with a tribe that has never seen the outside world. And I hold out my peace offering. It’s a Mega Pounder with cheese. “I got you a burger.” James snatches it from my hand angrily. But . . . he doesn’t throw it away. He turns to one of the men behind him. “Mick, bring it here.” Mick—a big, truck-size bloke—brings him a brown paper bag. And James’s cold blue eyes turn back to me. “After speaking with your former security team, I had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen last year when you were named heir. Given your history of slipping your detail, I asked her permission to ensure your safety by any means necessary, including this.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a children’s leash—the type you see on ankle-biters at amusement parks, with a deranged-looking monkey sticking its head out of a backpack, his mouth wide and gaping, like he’s about to eat whoever’s wearing it. And James smiles. “Queen Lenora said yes.” I suspected Granny didn’t like me anymore; now I’m certain of it. “If I have to,” James warns, “I’ll connect this to you and the other end to old Mick here.” Mick doesn’t look any happier about the fucking prospect than I am. “I don’t want to do that, but . . .” He shrugs, no further explanation needed. “So the next time you feel like ditching? Remember the monkey, Your Grace.” He puts the revolting thing back in its bag. And I wonder if fire would kill it. “Are we good, Prince Henry?” James asks. I respect a man willing to go balls-to-the-wall for his job. I don’t like the monkey . . . but I respect it. I flash him the okay sign with my fingers. “Golden.

Abruptly, Lara found herself flat on her back, her chair having been yanked out from under her with a quick jerk of her sister’s foot under the table. “You are such a bitch,” Lara muttered, rubbing the back of her head while Cresta and Bronwyn laughed. Sarhina circled the table, then bent down so that they were nose to nose. “I’m in charge, Your Majesty. Understood?

A happier occasion was in 2012 when the Queen agreed to take part in a spoof film for the opening ceremony of the London Olympic Games. She was seen walking along a corridor in Buckingham Palace accompanied by the actor Daniel Craig, aka James Bond. Also in the video were Her Majesty’s favourite corgi and ‘Big Paul’ Whybrew in his dark uniform complete with decorations.

Unfortunately, Her Majesty couldn't come. One of her Welsh dogs had been suddenly sick. The poor dog, whose name was Maddog, had gorged on a sizable portion of the Queen's Brazilian nuts last night, eventually fated with a terrible case of chronic constipation. The Queen demanded she would not attend the game until Maddog pooped, which apparently never happened.    Renowned

Did you see Octavia? MESSENGER Yes, revered Queen. CLEOPATRA Where? MESSENGER In Rome, Madam. I saw her face as she walked with her brother and Mark Antony. CLEOPATRA Is she as tall as I am? MESSENGER She is not, madam. CLEOPATRA Did you hear her speak? Is her voice pitched high or low? MESSENGER Madam, I heard her speak. She has a low-pitched voice. CLEOPATRA That’s not so good. He cannot like her long. MESSENGER Like her? Oh, Isis, that’s impossible. CLEOPATRA You’re right. Charmian, she’s both dull-spoken and dwarfishly little.—Did she carry herself with majesty? Compare her to any memory you might have of royalty. MESSENGER She creeps along. Moving or standing still, her bearing is about the same. She has a body, not a life. She’s more like a statue than a living, breathing human being. CLEOPATRA Is this true? MESSENGER If not, then I have no powers of observation. CHARMIAN There aren’t three people in all of Egypt who could do better. CLEOPATRA He’s very observant. I can tell. She doesn’t have anything going for her so far. This messenger is wise. CLEOPATRA (to MESSENGER ) How old do you think she is? MESSENGER She was a widow previously, madam CLEOPATRA A widow? Do you hear that, Charmian? MESSENGER And I think she’s at least thirty. CLEOPATRA Do you remember her face? Was it long or round? MESSENGER Round enough to be unattractive. CLEOPATRA Usually that means a person is foolish. What color is her hair? MESSENGER Brown, madam, and her forehead As low as she would wish it.

Albert wrote to his ‘dearest cousin’ on 26 June to offer his 'sincerest felicitations on that great change which had taken place in your life’. It was a difficult letter to compose. Now that she was 'Queen of the mightiest land of Europe’, he went on, 'the happiness of millions’ lay in her hands, and he trusted that Heaven would assist her in 'that high but difficult task.” He hoped for a long and happy - and glorious - reign, in which she would achieve the 'thankfulness and love’ of her subjects. He wished neither to be indiscreet nor to 'abuse’ her time, but, he closed, 'May I pray you to think likewise sometimes of your cousins in Bonn, and to continue to them that kindness you favoured them with till now.’ And he signed it as 'your Majesty’s most obedient and faithful servant, Albert’.

To my knowledge, he bit the man in charge of Attolia's kitchens not once but twice." "Good for him," The Attolian responded promptly. "More people should bite Onarkus." And I realized that of course he knew the overly proud petty tyrant of Her Majesty's kitchens. I think everyone had admired the sandal polisher that day. He'd paid for the bite with a terrific beating and then promptly bitten the man again.

aid an afflicted man to me, when I was last in a hospital like this, ‘Sir, I can frequently fly.’ I was half ashamed to reflect that so could I – by night. Said a woman to me on the same occasion, 'Queen Victoria frequently comes to dine with me, and her Majesty and I dine off peaches and maccaroni in our nightgowns, and His Royal Highness the Prince Consort does us the honour to make a third on horseback in a Field Marshal’s uniform.’ Could I refrain from reddening with consciousness when I remembered the amazing royal parties I myself have given (at night), the unaccountable viands I have put on table, and my extraordinary manner of conduction myself on those distinguished occasions? I wonder that the great master who knew everything when he called Sleep the death of each day’s life, did not call Dreams, the insanity of each day’s sanity

I have the body but of a weak, feeble woman,” she told her troops as the Spanish Armada sailed for home in 1588, “but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too.” Relishing opposites, the queen was constant only in her patriotism, her insistence on keeping ends within means, and her determination—a requirement for pivoting—never to be pinned down. 38 Her hopes for religion reflected this. Knowing the upheavals her country had undergone—Henry VIII’s expulsion of the pope from English Catholicism, the shift to strict Protestantism in Edward VI’s brief reign, the harsh reversion to Rome under Mary—Elizabeth wanted a single church with multiple ways of worship. There was, she pointed out, “only one Jesus Christ.” Why couldn’t there be different paths to Him? Theological quarrels were “trifles,” or, more tartly, “ropes of sand or sea-slime leading to the Moon.” 39 Until they affected national sovereignty. God’s church, under Elizabeth, would be staunchly English: whether “Catholic” or “Protestant” mattered less than loyalty. This was, in one sense, toleration, for the new queen cared little what her subjects believed. She would watch like a hawk, though, what they did. “Her Majesty seems to me incomparably more feared than her sister,” Feria warned Philip—which was saying something since that lady had been “bloody” Mary. “We have lost a kingdom,

If we had any assurance of saving her by battle, our duty would be very plain. It appears to me that we have none. And the service they ask of her is in no way contrary to her Majesty’s honor, but a noble and heroical act. If the Queen’s heart moves her to risk the magician, I will not speak against it.” As no one had ever known Reepicheep to be afraid of anything, he could say this without feeling at all awkward. But the boys, who had all been afraid quite often, grew very red. None the less, it was such obvious sense that they had to give in.

She had three days to ponder what that truth might be.Three days during which Dragon scarcely let her out of his sight. He went so far as to try to accompany her to the queen's solar, only to be shooed away by Ealhswith even as she smiled and took pains to reassure him. "I promise you, my lord,the Lady Rycca will be as safe here as a babe in arms. Believe me, the quarters of the queen are not entered into by miscreants." "That is all well and fine, majesty, but-" "Should you not be aware,my lord, we had an incident here last year when the Lady Krysta was taken from Winchester by stealth. Since then, my lord husband has spared no effort to assure nothing of the sort can ever happen again." She gestured toward the grim-faced guards on watch in the corridor. "You will find the same beneath my windows, Lord of Landsende,and even above us on the roof. Not even an errant bird can enter here." Even as she spoke, through the open door where she stood Dragon saw a raven alight on the sill of one of the solar's windows. Rather oddly, he thought, Krysta walked over and began talking to it. "There are four new books in the scriptorium, my lord," the queen said, unaware of what was going on behind her, "and a young priest-a friend of Father Desmond, who is now at Hawkforte-who is responsible for one of them. By the way,he has a yen to travel." That said,she shut the door not quite in his face but as close to it as that gently lady could ever come. Dragon hesitated. He eyed the guards,who eyed him back,reminded himself that he was in the house of the king,and finally decided to go look at the new books. While he was at it,he just might have a word with the priest.

Many Americans often refer to Elizabeth II as ‘Queen Elizabeth of England’ - however, as any Brit will tell you, that’s wrong - they’ll say she is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. But of course they’re wrong as well. Her majesty is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis.

this pointless conversation is over,” Moth complained, “I’d like to get His Majesty back to the room.” “Of course,” Granny said. “I’m going to pop in on Mr. Canis. I’ll meet you soon.” The girls went up to their room and closed the door. Moth climbed onto one of the two queen-sized beds and propped the icky cocoon onto a pillow. “I need silence, humans,” she announced. Sabrina rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said turning to her sister. “I need to talk to you.” She gestured to the bathroom and Daphne followed her inside. “Daphne, Granny and I have talked and we’ve come to an understanding

To whom it may concern, The bearer of this letter, Mr Franklin Liddle, is hereby employed by the Secret Service of her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria, and is on a special assignment for the British government. By Royal Decree, let it be known that should Mr Liddle break any laws while completing work of a most delicate nature, he is absolved of any wrongdoing. Officers of the law should not restrict Mr Liddle from completing such work even if it seems contrary to your sworn duty. Interfering with Mr Liddle’s aforementioned work may result in your own incarceration and possible execution. Signed, Mycroft Holmes   The

Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aërial guard   Descend, and sit on each important card:   First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore,   Then each, according to the rank they bore;   For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 35   Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.   Behold, four Kings in majesty rever'd,   With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;   And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow'r,   Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; 40   Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,   Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;   And particolour'd troops, a shining train,   Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.

She embellishes our works, adorning them with her own merits and virtues. It is as if a peasant, wishing to gain the friendship and benevolence of the king, went to the queen and presented her with a fruit which was his whole revenue, in order that she might present it to the king. The queen, having accepted the poor little offering from the peasant, would place the fruit on a large and beautiful dish of gold, and so, on the peasant's behalf, would present it to the king. Then the fruit, however unworthy in itself to be a king's present, would become worthy of his majesty because of the dish of gold on which it rested and the person who presented it.

He offered her his arm and they walked down the aisle together, towards the window. His window. It showed timelessness, and recovery and hope. It didn't stop her feeling terribly for the young man in the attic room and the innocent girl in her flat, and even the other one, who suffered such terrors before she died, but it gave her the strength to walk calmly and capably back into the busy castle, where she was the center of its turning world. In two days she and half the Household would head back to London to prepare for the State Opening of Parliament. Life very much went on. One did what one could. Right now, it was absolutely time for a little gin.

Tis a good thing to be light-handed,” said the king. “‘Tis a bad thing to be light-fingered,” answered the queen. “‘Tis a good thing to be light-footed,” said the king. “‘Tis a bad thing–“ began the queen; but the king interrupted her. “In fact,” said he, with the tone of one who concludes an argument in which he has had only imaginary opponents, and in which, therefore, he has come off triumphant–“in fact, it is a good thing altogether to be light-bodied.” “But it is a bad thing altogether to be light-minded,” retorted the queen, who was beginning to lose her temper. This last answer quite discomfited his Majesty, who turned on his heel, and betook himself to his counting-house again. But he was not half-way towards it, when the voice of his queen overtook him. “And it’s a bad thing to be light-haired,” screamed she, determined to have more last words, now that her spirit was roused. The queen’s hair was black as night; and the king’s had been, and his daughter’s was, golden as morning. But it was not this reflection on his hair that arrested him; it was the double use of the word light. For the king hated all witticisms, and punning especially. And besides, he could not tell whether the queen meant light-haired or light-heired; for why might she not aspirate her vowels when she was ex-asperated herself?

Apples, heigh-ho,” said Trumpkin with a rueful grin. “I must say you ancient kings and queens don’t overfeed your courtiers!” They stood up and shook themselves and looked about. The trees were thick and they could see no more than a few yards in any direction. “I suppose your Majesties know the way all right?” said the Dwarf. “I don’t,” said Susan. “I’ve never seen these woods in my life before. In fact I thought all along that we ought to have gone by the river.” “Then I think you might have said so at the time,” answered Peter, with pardonable sharpness. “Oh, don’t take any notice of her,” said Edmund. “She always is a wet blanket. You’ve got that pocket compass of yours, Peter, haven’t you? Well, then, we’re as right as rain. We’ve only got to keep on going northwest--cross that little river, the what-do-you-call-it?--the Rush--” “I know,” said Peter. “The one that joins the big river at the Fords of Beruna, or Beruna’s Bridge, as the D.L.F. calls it.” “That’s right. Cross it and strike uphill, and we’ll be at the Stone Table (Aslan’s How, I mean) by eight or nine o’clock. I hope King Caspian will give us a good breakfast!” “I hope you’re right,” said Susan. “I can’t remember all that at all.” “That’s the worst of girls,” said Edmund to Peter and the Dwarf. “They never carry a map in their heads.” “That’s because our heads have something inside them,” said Lucy.

Said an afflicted man to me, when I was last in a hospital like this, ‘Sir, I can frequently fly.’ I was half ashamed to reflect that so could I – by night. Said a woman to me on the same occasion, 'Queen Victoria frequently comes to dine with me, and her Majesty and I dine off peaches and maccaroni in our nightgowns, and His Royal Highness the Prince Consort does us the honour to make a third on horseback in a Field Marshal’s uniform.’ Could I refrain from reddening with consciousness when I remembered the amazing royal parties I myself have given (at night), the unaccountable viands I have put on table, and my extraordinary manner of conduction myself on those distinguished occasions? I wonder that the great master who knew everything when he called Sleep the death of each day’s life, did not call Dreams, the insanity of each day’s sanity

Look here, Lu,” said Edmund. “We really can’t let you do a thing like this. Ask Reep, I’m sure he’ll say just the same.” “But it’s to save my own life as well as yours,” said Lucy. “I don’t want to be cut to bits with invisible swords any more than anyone else.” “Her Majesty is in the right,” said Reepicheep. “If we had any assurance of saving her by battle, our duty would be very plain. It appears to me that we have none. And the service they ask of her is in no way contrary to her Majesty’s honor, but a noble and heroical act. If the Queen’s heart moves her to risk the magician, I will not speak against it.” As no one had ever known Reepicheep to be afraid of anything, he could say this without feeling at all awkward. But the boys, who had all been afraid quite often, grew very red. None the less, it was such obvious sense that they had to give in.

I was longing to walk over to Her Majesty, the Queen, and tell her, mother to mother, “Your Majesty, we’ve known Lady Diana quite well for the past year and a half. We’d like you to know what a truly lovely young woman your son is about to marry.” A sincere and uncontroversial prewedding remark. Unfortunately, this was not only the groom’s mother but also Her Majesty, the Queen of England. Protocol prevented our approaching her, since we had not been personally introduced. I toyed briefly with the idea of walking up to her anyway and pretending that, as an American, I didn’t know the rules. But I was afraid of a chilling rebuff and did not want to embarrass Diana, who had been kind enough to invite us. Pat did not encourage me to plunge ahead. In fact, this time he exclaimed, “Have you lost your mind?” Maybe I should have taken a chance. Too timid again!

When Diana returned to work on Monday, September 16, she came directly to my bedroom and announced, “Mrs. Robertson, I have something important to tell you.” I could see out of the corner of my eye that she had a slight, mischievous grin on her face. “Go right ahead,” I said as I continued to blow-dry my hair in front of the mirror above the dresser. “No, Mrs. Robertson, I’d like your full attention.” I switched off my hair dryer and faced her as she stood in the doorway. “When you leave for work this morning, you’ll notice a lot of reporters and photographers at the entrance to the mews.” I wondered aloud if the press were following either Lord Vestey, a notorious international financier, or John Browne, a bright young M.P. known as one of “Maggie’s boys,” both of whom lived on our small street. “No, actually, Mrs. Robertson, they’re waiting for me,” Diana said with a great deal of blushing, staring at the floor, and throat clearing. “Good heavens, Diana, why?” “Well . . . I spent last weekend at Balmoral.” “With Prince Andrew?” I asked, remembering my friend Lee’s comment on the way to Glyndebourne. “No, actually, I was there to see Prince Charles.” More blushes and throat clearing, quickly followed by her disclaimer, “But he didn’t invite me. His mother did.” Hearing Diana speak of Her Majesty the Queen as “his mother” certainly gave me a clear picture of the circles in which Diana moved. I gasped and asked, probably rather tactlessly, “Gosh, do you think there’s any chance of a romance developing?” “Not really,” she said with noticeable regret. “After all, he’s thirty-one and I’m only nineteen. He’d never look seriously at me.” So modest, so appealing. I couldn’t imagine him not learning to love her. We certainly had. “Well, Diana, I wouldn’t be so sure,” I replied, thinking of my prediction from July.

Sweetheart, you are alive. I am alive. And since I cannot be the pirate I always dreamed of being, I fell in love with one instead. I am not a traitor, I am not a deserter, and in time I will explain it all to you. For now, just trust that I am your Gallant Knight.”  He smiled. “Your officer.” She stared at him, uncomprehending. “My friends call me Gray. My men address me as Sir Graham. And the rest of the world knows me as”—he smiled a sheepish, charming grin that pushed a dimple into his chin—“Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath and Commander of the Leeward Islands squadron of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Station. My flag is hoisted on His Majesty’s Ship Triton, and we're on our way to Barbados to pick up a convoy of merchant ships to escort back to England, where I shall enjoy a long-deserved leave with you as my wife, if you’ll have me, before duty returns me to my post. Maeve?” Her eyes were slipping shut. “Maeve?” But the shock was too much for her. The Pirate Queen had fainted.

You invisible people, what do you want with us? And what have we done to earn your enmity?” “We want something that little girl can do for us,” said the Chief Voice. (The others explained that this was just what they would have said themselves.) “Little girl!” said Reepicheep. “The lady is a queen.” “We don’t know about queens,” said the Chief Voice. (“No more we do, no more we do,” chimed in the others.) “But we want something she can do.” “What is it?” said Lucy. “And if it is anything against her Majesty’s honor or safety,” added Reepicheep, “you will wonder to see how many we can kill before we die.” “Well,” said the Chief Voice. “It’s a long story. Suppose we all sit down?” The proposal was warmly approved by the other voices but the Narnians remained standing. “Well,” said the Chief Voice. “It’s like this. This island has been the property of a great magician time out of mind. And we all are--or perhaps in a manner of speaking, I might say, we were--his servants. Well, to cut a long story short, this magician that I was speaking about, he told us to do something we didn’t like. And why not? Because we didn’t want to.

At once, Raj set about finding some dry clothes for Ben and the Queen. However, all he had were his unsold costumes from Halloween. “This is your size, Your Majesty,” said Raj, handing her a lobster costume. “One has never dressed as a lobster before. What fun!” she said, taking the costume behind the card carousel to change. Next, Raj picked up one of his princess outfits. Before he could say a thing, Ben snapped, “NO!” “What do you mean, no?” asked Raj. “No means no! I am never, ever, ever dressing up as a princess!” “But you would look so pretty!” Raj implored. “NO!” “Well, the lobster outfits are too big for you.” The Queen reappeared with hers on. “Red is so your colour!” remarked Raj. “Oh, why thank you, Mr Raj. Now come on, Ben. You can’t stay in those wet things – you will catch your death of cold!” “But—” “No buts, Benjamin! Put it on! That’s an order from your Queen!” Ben harumphed and disappeared behind the card carousel. Moments later, he reappeared awkwardly. He was dressed as a princess with the grumpiest look on his face. “You know I said how pretty you would look as a princess?” began Raj. “Yep.” “I was wrong.” Then,

You don't have to say that," she insisted. "I mean - I'll understand, if you hate me." "I could never hate you, Bee. I just...I miss you." There was no reproach in Connor's words, only a weary, unflinching truth. "I miss you, too." she said, and meant it. Beatrice's tears were coming more freely now, but that wasn't surprising. Nothing in life hurt more than hurting the people you loved. Yet Beatrice knew she had to say all of this. She and Connor had loved each other too fiercely for her to let him go without a proper goodbye. "I am...forever changed by you," she added, her voice catching. "I gave you part of my heart a long time ago, and I've never gotten it back." "You don't need it back." His voice was rough with unshed tears. "I swear that I'll keep it safe. Everywhere I go, that part of you will come with me, and I will guard and treasure it. Always." A sob escaped her chest. She hurt for Connor and with Connor and because of Connor, all at once. This wasn't how breakups were meant to go. In the movies they always seemed so hateful, with people yelling and throwing things at each other. They weren't meant to be like this, tender and gentle and full of heartache. "Okay," she replied, through her tears. "That part of my heart is yours to keep." Connor stepped back, loosening his hand from hers, and Beatrice felt the thread between them pull taut and finally snap. She imagined that she could hear it - a crisp sort of sound, like the stem of a rose being snapped in two. Her body felt strangely sore, or maybe it was her heart that felt sore, recognizing the parts of it that she had given away, forever. "You're such an amazing person, Connor. I hope you find someone who deserves you." Again he attempted a crooked smile. "It won't be easy on her, trying to live up to the queen. For a small person, you cast quite the shadow," he said, and then his features grew serious once more. "Bee - if you ever need me, I'll be there for you. You know that, right?" She swallowed against a lump in her throat. "The same promise holds for me, too. I'm always here if you need me." As she spoke, the steel panel began to lift back into the ceiling. Beatrice straightened her shoulders beneath the cool silk of the gown, drew in a breath. Somehow she managed to gather up the tattered shreds of her self-control, as if she wasn't a young woman who'd just said goodbye to her first love - to her best friend. As of she wasn't a young woman at all, but a queen.

There’s fifty of us and more here with weapons in our fists.” “Hear him, hear him,” came the chorus. “That’s our Chief. You can depend on what he says. He’s telling you the truth, he is.” “I do not see these fifty warriors,” observed Reepicheep. “That’s right, that’s right,” said the Chief Voice. “You don’t see us. And why not? Because we’re invisible.” “Keep it up, Chief, keep it up,” said the Other Voices. “You’re talking like a book. They couldn’t ask for a better answer than that.” “Be quiet, Reep,” said Caspian, and then added in a louder voice, “You invisible people, what do you want with us? And what have we done to earn your enmity?” “We want something that little girl can do for us,” said the Chief Voice. (The others explained that this was just what they would have said themselves.) “Little girl!” said Reepicheep. “The lady is a queen.” “We don’t know about queens,” said the Chief Voice. (“No more we do, no more we do,” chimed in the others.) “But we want something she can do.” “What is it?” said Lucy. “And if it is anything against her Majesty’s honor or safety,” added Reepicheep, “you will wonder to see how many we can kill before we die.” “Well,” said the Chief Voice. “It’s a long story. Suppose we all sit down?” The proposal was warmly approved by the other voices but the Narnians remained standing.

Rollo cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, Princess Gwendafyn, Her Majesty Queen Luciee has some questions for you.” “I’ll translate for her,” Benjimir said in Elvish. “No,” Queen Luciee said in Calnoric, her voice encased in ice. “….don’t trust you…change words.” “Rollo, did the queen just imply Benjimir might not tell her the truth?” Gwendafyn murmured. “Um…yes,” the translator said. A muscle in Gwendafyn’s eyebrow jumped in irritation. “I see.” It’s a shame Queen Luciee was not bonded to Aunt Lorius. I’m certain they would get along splendidly. No, she is worse than my aunt. At least Aunt Lorius believes in what she presses upon me. Queen Luciee enjoys crushing the spirit of others. Gwendafyn had not missed the way the queen had shot down Princess Claire… “….Unnecessary, Luciee,” King Petyrr said. “Benjimir and Gwendafyn married….love each other,” he said. Queen Luciee narrowed her eyes. “I’ve thought…suspicious…an elf could love Benjimir.” Benjimir stiffened next to her, the expression on his face unreadable. In that moment, Gwendafyn wished she could wipe the smug look off the queen’s face. She knows Benjimir loves Yvrea—she must have been informed of it when he was sent into exile. How could she say such a hurtful thing to him when she is his mother? Anger rolled off Gwendafyn in waves. It was only years of experience in shoving her rage down that kept her from glaring. Instead, she fixed an unconcerned smile on her lips. Rollo cleared his throat. “Queen Luciee wishes to ask if it is true you sing a ballad to Prince Benjimir after lunch every day.” Benjimir squeezed her hand, but Gwendafyn ignored it and made a show of widening her eyes and fluttering them. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m not going to let her try and make Benjimir look like an idiot. “Of course,” she said in Calnoric. When she glanced from Queen Luciee to King Petyrr she saw their look of confusion. Bother the grunts of Calnoric! They are so hard to achieve. I must be mangling this. “Rollo, could you tell them I said of course?” Rollo nodded. “Yes, Princess Gwendafyn.” He addressed the royal family across the table in flawless Calnoric. “In fact,” Gwendafyn continued in Elvish. “It is one of the most enjoyable parts of my day. We laugh—and once he even cried over a tragic ballad, though he will deny it—and enjoy each other’s company. I love spending time with Ben.” Benjimir twitched at the as-of-yet-unused nickname, but he managed to stare adoringly at her. Yvrea placed a hand over her heart. “How touching! I know you do not normally like to sing for others, sister. It is a testament to your love for Benji,” Yvrea said. “Yes,

The law has now done its part, and the Queen of England, her crown and Government in Ireland, are now secure pursuant to Act of Parliament. I have done my part also. Three months ago I promised Lord Clarendon, and his government, in this country, that I would provoke him into his courts of justice, as places of this kind are called, and that I would force him publicly and notoriously to pack a Jury against me to convict me, or else that if I would walk out a free man from this dock, to meet him in another field. My lord, I knew I was setting my life on that cast; but I warned him that in either event the victory would be with me, and the victory is with me. Neither the jury, nor the judges, nor any other man in this court, presumes to imagine that it is a criminal who stands in this dock. I have kept my word. "I have shown what the law is made of in Ireland. I have shown that her Majesty's Government sustains itself in Ireland by packed juries by partisan judges, by perjured sheriffs. I have acted all through this business, from the first, under a strong sense of duty. I do not repent anything I have done: and I believe that the course which I have opened is only commenced, The Roman who saw his hand burning to ashes before the tyrant, promised that three hundred should follow out his enterprise, Can I not promise for one, for two, for three, aye, for hundreds?

was laughable. An aisle stretched down the middle of the ballroom, defined by candelabras topped with more pale orbs, their light flickering like little flames. The aisle runner was black and set with rhinestones in mimicry of the night sky. Or, the always sky, as it was here on Luna. A hush fell over the room, and Kai could tell it was not a normal hush. It was too controlled, too flawless. His heart pounded, uncontrolled in its cage. This was the moment he’d been dreading, the fate he’d fought against for so long. No one was going to interfere. He was alone and rooted to the floor. At the far back of the room, the massive doors opened, chorused with a fanfare of horns. At the end of the aisle, two shadows emerged—a man and a woman in militaristic uniforms carrying the flags of Luna and the Eastern Commonwealth. After they parted, setting the flags into stands on either side of the altar, a series of Lunar guards marched into the room, fully armed and synchronized. They, too, spread out when they reached the altar, like a protective wall around the dais. Next down the aisle were six thaumaturges dressed in black, walking in pairs, graceful as black swans. They were followed by two in red, and finally Head Thaumaturge Aimery Park, all in white. A voice dropped down from some hidden speakers. “All rise for Her Royal Majesty, Queen Levana Blackburn of Luna.” The people rose. Kai clasped his shaking hands behind his back. She appeared as a silhouette first in the lights of the doors, a perfect hourglass dropping off to a full billowing skirt that flowed behind her. She walked with her head high, gliding toward

Pat and I smiled to see a small evening bag with a short handle hooked over her left elbow. We wondered why she would carry a handbag in her own home. What would she possibly need from it? I was longing to walk over to Her Majesty, the Queen, and tell her, mother to mother, “Your Majesty, we’ve known Lady Diana quite well for the past year and a half. We’d like you to know what a truly lovely young woman your son is about to marry.” A sincere and uncontroversial prewedding remark. Unfortunately, this was not only the groom’s mother but also Her Majesty, the Queen of England. Protocol prevented our approaching her, since we had not been personally introduced. I toyed briefly with the idea of walking up to her anyway and pretending that, as an American, I didn’t know the rules. But I was afraid of a chilling rebuff and did not want to embarrass Diana, who had been kind enough to invite us. Pat did not encourage me to plunge ahead. In fact, this time he exclaimed, “Have you lost your mind?” Maybe I should have taken a chance. Too timid again! Our next glimpse of the royal family was Prince Philip, socializing a room or two away from the queen and surrounded by attractive women. He was a bit shorter than he appears in photographs, but quite handsome with a dignified presence and a regal, controlled charm. Pat was impressed by how flawlessly Prince Philip played his role as host, speaking graciously to people in small groups, then moving smoothly on to the next group, unhurried and polished. I thought he had an intimidating, wouldn’t “suffer fools gladly” air—not a person with whom one could easily make small talk, although his close friends seemed relaxed with him. It was easy to believe that he had been a stern and domineering father to Prince Charles. The Prince of Wales had seemed much warmer and more approachable.

Rowan laughed, and kissed the top of her head. And for a long moment, he just marveled that he could do it. Could stand with her here, in this kingdom, this city, this castle, where they would make their home. He could see it now: the halls restored to their splendor, the plain and river sparkling beyond, the Staghorns beckoning. He could hear the music she’d bring to this city, and the laughter of the children in the streets. In these halls. In their royal suite. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, peering up at his face. Rowan brushed a kiss to her mouth. “That I get to be here. With you.” “There’s lots of work to be done. Some might say as bad as dealing with Erawan.” “Nothing will ever be that bad.” She snorted. “True. He tucked her in closer. “I am thinking about how very grateful I am. That we made it. That I found you. And how, even with all that work to be done, I will not mind a moment of it because you are with me.” She frowned, her eyes dampening. “I’m going to have a terrible headache from all this crying, and you’re not helping.” Rowan laughed, and kissed her again. “Very queenly.” She hummed. “I am, if anything, the consummate portrait of royal grace.” He chuckled against her mouth. “And humility. Let’s not forget that.” “Oh, yes,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. His blood heated, sparkling with a power greater than any force a god or Wyrdkey could summon. But Rowan pulled away, just far enough to rest his brow against hers. “Let’s get you to your chambers, Majesty, so you can commence your royal wallowing.” She shook with laughter. “I might have something else in mind now.” Rowan let out a growl, and nipped at her ear, her neck. “Good, I do, too.” “And tomorrow?” she asked breathlessly, and they both paused to look at each other. To smile. “Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?” “Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand years they were granted together. And beyond.

A tall, well-muscled blond man drew alongside Christian. He inclined his head to them. “Abbot,” he said to Christian in greeting. Christian seemed pleased to see him. “Falcon. It’s been a long time.” “Aye. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to greet you yester eve when you arrived.” Christian offered him a lopsided grin. “’Tis well understood. I heard about your escapade with the butcher’s daughter and your near miss with her father’s cleaver.” Falcon laughed. “Lies all. ’Twas the tanner’s daughter and her father’s ax.” Christian joined his laughter. “One day, my friend, you will meet the one father who can run faster than you.” “’Tis why God gave us horses.” He winked at Christian, then tilted his head so that he could see Adara. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Queen Adara. I am Lord Quentin of Adelsbury and my sword is ever at your disposal.” Christian gave him a meaningful stare. “And your sword had best stay sheathed, Falcon, until you’re on the battlefield.” “Your warning is well taken into consideration, Abbot, along with your sword skill and horsemanship. Have no fear of me. Your wife is ever safe from my designs. But no woman is safe from my charm.” Adara couldn’t help teasing the man who seemed of remarkable good spirit and cheer. “However some women might find themselves immune from it, my Lord Falcon.” “What, ho?” he said with a laugh. “Congratulations, Christian. You have found a woman as intelligent as she is beautiful. Tell me, Your Majesty, have you a sister who is fashioned in your image?” “Nay, my lord. I fear I am one of a kind.” He looked sincerely despondent at the news. “’Tis a pity, then. I shall just have to pray for Christian to lay aside his duties and become a monk in earnest.” Christian snorted at that prospect. “You would have a better chance courting my horse.” “Then I shall take my charm and work it on a woman who isn’t immune to it. Good day to you both.” Adara glanced over her shoulder as he fell back into the ranks with the other knights. “Don’t look at him,” Christian said in a teasing tone. “You’ll only play into his overbloated self-esteem.” She gave him a meaningful look. “In that regard, he reminds me of someone else I know.” “Ouch, my lady, you wound me.” “Never, Christian. I would never wound you.

For when all things were made, none was made better than this: to be a lone man's companion, a sad man's cordial, a chilly man's fire. . . . There is no herb like it under the canopy of heaven.

queen opened the gate, and she and Arthur crossed to the hut. Guinevere knocked on the door. A moment later, an old woman wrapped in a shawl stood in the doorway. She had a long white braid and luminous skin worn smooth by weather and time, like an ancient stone. The woman’s eyes were closed. With a start, Jack realized Cafelle was blind. At her side was a tall white dog with light blue eyes. Oki didn’t bark or whine. The peaceful gaze of the white dog seemed to keep him calm. “Greetings, Cafelle. We have come to—to seek your help,” rasped King Arthur. Cafelle bowed her head. “Welcome, Your Majesty,” she said. “And the queen has come with you this time,

The Queen had awakened him shortly after dawn, a call from Buck House. Her Majesty the Queen was fit to be tied.

Buchanan tried to whip the devil out of me. “Find your tongue, lad!” Forgive this regression, but the man hated English. He may have hated everything by then, including me, but he was uncommon prickly when it came to English. You could tell by the way he bullied it. “The bastarde English,” the old man roared. “The verie whoore of a tongue.” We did our best to mimic him note for note, gesture for gesture. He hated that, too. The verie whoore. Old Greek before Breakfast Latin by Noon himself. The point is, what English I had was beaten or twisted into me. We were orphaned and crowned before we could speak or take our first step. No father. No mother. Too many uncles. Hounds for baying. Buchanan was the most religious of my keepers, and the unkindest of spirits among them. We have been told the young queen of Scots was once his student, and that he loved her. Just before giving her over to wreckage, methinks. Pious frauds. Their wicked Jesus. Then occasion smil’d. We were thirteen. The affection of Esme Stuart was one thing, lavished, as it was, so liberally upon us, but the music of his voice was another. We empowered our cousin, gave him name, station, a new sense of gravity, height, and reach, all the toys of privilege. We were told he spoke our mother’s French, the way it flutters about your neck like a small bird. But it was his English that moved us. For the first time, there was kindness in it, charity, heat and light. We didn’t know language could do such things, that could charm with such violence, make such a disturbance in us. Our cousin was our excess, our vice, our great transgression according to some, treason according to others. They came one night and stole him from us, that is, from me. They tore me out of his arms, called me wanton. Better that bairns should weepe, they said. Barking curs. We never saw our cousin again and were never the same after. But the charm was wound up. If we say we can taste words, we are not trying to be clever. And we are an insatiable king. Try now, if you can, to understand the nature of our thoughts touching the translation, its want of a poet. We will consult with Sir Francis. He is closer to the man, some say, than a brother. English is mistress between them. There, Bacon says, is empire. There, a great Britain. Where it is dull, where the glow . . . gleam . . . where the gleam of Majestie is absent or mute . . . When occasion smiles again, we will send for the man, Shakespere. Majestie has left its print on his art. After that hideous Scottish play, his best, darkest, and most complicated characters are . . . us. Lear. Antony. Othello. Fools all. All. The English language must be the best that is in us . . . We are but names, titles, antiquities, forgotten speeches, an accident of blood and historical memory. Aye . . . but this marvelously unexceptional little man. No more of this. By the unfortunate title of this history we must, it seems, prepare ourselves for a tragedy. Some will escape. Some will not. For bully Ben can never suffer a true rival. He killed an actor once for botching his lines. Actors. Southampton waits in our chambers. We will let him. First, to our thoughts. Only then to our Lord of Southampton.

Upstairs, on the balcony, the chairs are laid out for one of the most extraordinary – though invisible – rituals of a Palace banquet. In a tradition harking back to the medieval custom of royal meals as public entertainment, two dozen people will have tickets to sit behind the Band of the Grenadier Guards and simply watch the banquet. The ‘audience’ will be made up of members of staff, each of whom can bring a guest, and it’s always extremely popular as the ‘audience’ have dinner thrown in. However, once seated no one is allowed to budge for the best part of two hours.

Keith spent three at Her Majesty’s pleasure and came out saying he intended to prosecute the queen for allowing cannabis to be smoked on her property—he had been offered half a dozen joints in prison and “they were fab.

The Queen’s Huntsman is Fabian Wruck. She gifted him both names, with the latter translating loosely to mean ‘cantankerous’. Which, I find, turned out to be very well-suited.

I do not know how to help [Ephraim]. I suspect that none of us do, although we love him, and we fear he will be the next target of the queen’s wrath.

To show Meghan how it was done, the Queen invited the family fledgling to accompany her a month after the wedding to open a six-lane toll bridge in the town of Chester, near Liverpool. One should, perhaps, detect Her Majesty’s dry sense of humor in the choice of engagement.

If the Sussexes had any residual misgivings about whether they wanted out, those doubts vanished when they viewed the Queen’s 2019 televised Christmas message. With their own eyes, they saw that they had been kicked to the margins of the monarchy. Her Majesty eloquently made the point in her speech by saying nothing. The subtext was all in the flotilla of carefully arranged family photographs positioned on her writing desk, a grouping that, in case anyone thinks is accidental, has been artfully changed every year since the monarch’s first televised seasonal message in 1957. The previous Christmas, a family portrait of Charles, Camilla, the five Cambridges, and Harry and Meghan was exhibited at Her Majesty’s elbow. But in December 2019, the Sussexes had evaporated, their image excised as skillfully as Stalin would have done to an apparatchik out of favor. According to author Christopher Andersen, the Queen told the director of the broadcast that all the displayed photographs were fine to remain in the shot except for one. Her Majesty pointed at a winsome portrait of Harry, Meghan, and baby Archie. “ That one,” said the Queen. “I suppose we don’t need that one.” And a happy Christmas to you too, Granny! William was said to have been appalled when he saw the Sussexes had been edited out. He knew his brother well enough to predict a Category 5 tantrum brewing.

An astounding amount of royal history happened during the writing of Endgame. The world was introduced to King Charles III and Queen Camilla; Prince Andrew was stripped of his titles. Prince Harry released an explosive memoir and a revealing Netflix series, and, of course, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II passed away. All

Do you really believe that the Tear army can hold the border?” “Of course I do, Majesty. To believe otherwise is treasonous.” Kelsea clamped her teeth down on the inside of her cheek, unable to believe the cognitive dissonance implied in such a statement.

Do you know why we use Sense and Sensibility? Why Miss Havisham insisted on it, in fact?” “Don’t believe this,” murmured Miss Havisham. “It’s all poppycock. Her majesty is a verb short of a sentence.” “I’ll tell you why,” went on the Red Queen angrily, “because in Sense and Sensibility there are no strong father or husband figures!” Miss Havisham was silent. “Face the facts, Havisham. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steeles, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon or Willoughby have a father to guide them! Aren’t you taking your hatred of men just a little too far?

Oh, really,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “I thought it was because you couldn’t get rid of me.” “Well, that, too,” she said with an impish grin. She groaned as she scrambled to her feet. “One thing’s clear at least. I’m going to have to go a little easier on all those refreshments at the balls and afternoon teas and soirees. I think they’re starting to take their toll.” “Very true,” I said, my face serious. “I’d been meaning to say something…” She shot me a worried look, and I couldn’t help grinning. “But I figured you’d notice yourself seeing as how you’ve started having to turn sideways to fit through doors.” She took a swipe at me, but I stepped deftly out of her way. “See?” I said, still smiling. “You’re getting slow, too.” She rolled her eyes, and I ducked in close enough to whisper in her ear. “You wouldn’t want to risk looking less than perfect for Miles now, would you?” She exclaimed in outrage and tried once again to catch me. I escaped her easily, and she proceeded to chase me around the fountains, much to the amusement of the children who followed behind us, shrieking encouragement to one or the other of us. I eluded her for several minutes, ducking behind fountains and jumping over benches, purely for the entertainment of our audience. She entered into the drama with equal enthusiasm, pretending to be slower than she really was. When I eventually let her catch me, we both collapsed onto a bench, laughing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the blush,” I whispered, too quietly for the children to hear. “I hope you’re not forgetting who Miles is.” I shot her a warning look, and she met my eyes, her own full of guilt. But Ava approached us before she could reply. “If you two are quite finished, we should probably get back to the castle now.” I jumped to my feet, but she was smiling so I relaxed. “As you command, Your Majesty,” I said, bowing low. The children laughed again, and Ava shook her head at me. We were all still smiling when we left the square. None of us were really in a hurry to get back, so we walked, leading the horses behind us. Ava and Sarah were talking idly about the court when a voice called to Ava from across the street. I turned around and sucked in a sharp breath. It was Anhalt, one arm raised in greeting and a broad smile on his face. I had just enough time to whisper his name to Ava and Sarah before he had crossed over to join us. I was careful to keep my face free of all emotion as Sarah and I dropped back to walk respectfully behind Ava and the count. Anhalt seemed delighted with our chance encounter and determined to make the most of his unexpected audience with the queen. I watched the surrounding streets with my usual vigilance while I wondered if his voice really sounded so oily, or if it was my own feelings painting my perception of them. Sarah was listening intently to their conversation, her eyes never leaving the count’s form. I knew she would be paying attention for any clues, so I stopped listening myself, devoting my full attention to watching for any threat to the queen. I wasn’t sure if it was this extra attentiveness or just a heightened sense of alert due to the count’s presence, but I noticed an odd flicker of movement as we passed a small side alley. It was barely more than a shifting of shadow, and I could easily have missed it. Instead I tensed, my hand flying to my sword hilt. In one step, I placed myself between Ava and the alley. She turned to look at me, surprised out of her conversation by my sudden movement. I spoke to her but kept my eyes trained on the shadows. “It might be nothing, but I think it would be a good idea if we moved a bit faster, Your Majesty.

Her most majestic, powerful, infallible, eternal, bony majesty, the Exalted Eternal Exceptional Queen Nebula will now attend to the supplicants before her.” Are you kidding me with this nonsense?

You wanted a word with me?” The smile quirking around his lips confirmed her theory. “You know how much I appreciate my words with you, Your Majesty.” “Tamar,” Terenti snapped. “If you want me to remove this madman…” “Don’t bother. Is he armed?” “I’m not,” Runo helpfully said before Terenti could answer. “That invincible warrior taking me prisoner took my knife. Spectacular fight, you should have been there.

Over four hundred thousand people from every corner of the country and overseas lined up for five days for an opportunity to venerate Her Majesty and her legacy or to just be present for this historical moment. #TheQueue trended on social media, and lines—which could even be seen from planes flying to Heathrow—became an important final scene of the Queen’s life: a national moment of shared experience.

I journeyed through excruciating humiliations. The Bridle Path, the other games of Festival Night in her Majesty’s gardens; I was the Queen’s toy now and then; Lord Gregory, The Master of the slaves. excited the most exquisite fear in me. But I never pleased Lord Stefan because he himself did not know how to be pleased! He did not know to command! I was always distracted by other Lords.

As they observed, the legionary’s gladius descended with exceptional speed and force, and in a single strike, cleanly separated the head of Ptolemy Caesar, son of the divine Gaius Julius Caesar and Her Majesty Queen of Egypt, Cleopatra, who was seventeen years of age at the time of departure from this realm. And thus ended the rule of the Pharaohs in Egypt.

Presenting Her Majesty, Queen Vice of Sanctuary, First of her Name, the Stormblade, Queen of… Pirates.

When Queen Elizabeth heard of Hawkins' slaving venture, she said "It was detestable and would call down vengeance from heaven upon the undertakers." Hawkins went to the see the queen and showed Her Majesty his profit sheet. Not only did she forgive him but she became a shareholder in his second slaving voyage.

I owe you a thousand sorrys. I am guilty of ambition, and love. I truly saw, on the crest of tomorrow, a world where I could be me, and you could be you, and we could be together, just as we are. Was I naive?

Scottish witchcraft suspect Isobel Gowdie claimed that she had been favoured with gifts of meat (food) by the ‘Qwein of Fearrie’ who was “brawlie clothed in whyt linens, and white and browne cloathes.” This queen had a partner, an anonymous king, as was the case too with the faery queen of the ballad of Thomas of Erceldoune- and from whom her sexual relationship with mortal Thomas had to be concealed.57 Accused witch Isobel Watson was privileged enough to be midwife to an unnamed fairy queen, whereas Alison Pearson, from St Andrews in Fife, failed to achieve such intimate access. She had (deceased) relatives who resided in the fairy court and who were on good terms with the queen, she told to her trial in 1588, but she personally had never met her majesty, who was, by all accounts, quite a moody individual. Sometimes she was good, sometimes evil; sometimes she was present in the court and sometimes elsewhere.58 Another anonymous queen was met by Andro Man of Aberdeen- who entered into a long-term sexual relationship with her and was taught healing and prophetic skills by her. Elizabeth Dunlop from Lyne near Peebles was endowed with the same knowledge by the queen herself.

She bowed her head. “Look after our people, Your Majesty.” My throat tightened. The title was more than an acknowledgment. From her, it was a priceless gift.

I found myself in an unknown universe, whirling far into space. African servants, dogs in hats, platonic ideals, sparkling conversation, and ivy-coated quadrangles with womanizing captains, dueling earls, actors. I met Father Cyprien de Gamache, her majesty's wily confessor; William, a poet, who claimed to be Shakespeare's son; and a giggling dwarf called Jeffry, who'd been presented to the queen in a pie. I met the ladies-in-waiting, too, who hardly looked my way, busy as they were, bickering over who went where and when, who wore what and when, who fetched what and why, who said what and to whom, and who gave her the right to say that.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. My memory of Diana is not her at an official function, dazzling with her looks and clothes and the warmth of her manner, or even of her offering comfort among the sick, the poor, and the dispossessed. What I remember best is a young woman taking a walk in a beautiful place, unrecognized, carefree, and happy. Diana increasingly craved privacy, a chance “to be normal,” to have the opportunity to do what, in her words, “ordinary people” do every day of their lives--go shopping, see friends, go on holiday, and so on--away from the formality and rituals of royal life. As someone responsible for her security, yet understanding her frustration, I was sympathetic. So when in the spring of the year in which she would finally be separated from her husband, Prince Charles, she yet again raised the suggestion of being able to take a walk by herself, I agreed that such a simple idea could be realized. Much of my childhood had been spent on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset, a county in southern England approximately 120 miles from London; I remembered the wonderful sandy beaches of Studland Bay, on the approach to Poole Harbour. The idea of walking alone on miles of almost deserted sandy beach was something Diana had not even dared dream about. At this time she was receiving full twenty-four-hour protection, and it was at my discretion how many officers should be assigned to her protection. “How will you manage it, Ken? What about the backup?” she asked. I explained that this venture would require us to trust each other, and she looked at me for a moment and nodded her agreement. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her. She set off at once, a tall figure clad in a pair of blue denim jeans, a dark-blue suede jacket, and a soft scarf wrapped loosely around her face to protect her from the chilling, easterly spring wind. I stood and watched as she slowly dwindled in the distance, her head held high, alone apart from busy oyster catchers that followed her along the water’s edge. It was a strange sensation watching her walking away by herself, with no bodyguards following at a discreet distance. What were my responsibilities here? I kept thinking. Yet I knew this area well, and not once did I feel uneasy. I had made this decision--not one of my colleagues knew. Senior officers at Scotland Yard would most certainly have boycotted the idea had I been foolish enough to give them advance notice of what the Princess and I were up to.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her. She set off at once, a tall figure clad in a pair of blue denim jeans, a dark-blue suede jacket, and a soft scarf wrapped loosely around her face to protect her from the chilling, easterly spring wind. I stood and watched as she slowly dwindled in the distance, her head held high, alone apart from busy oyster catchers that followed her along the water’s edge.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. It was a strange sensation watching her walking away by herself, with no bodyguards following at a discreet distance. What were my responsibilities here? I kept thinking. Yet I knew this area well, and not once did I feel uneasy. I had made this decision--not one of my colleagues knew. Senior officers at Scotland Yard would most certainly have boycotted the idea had I been foolish enough to give them advance notice of what the Princess and I were up to. Before Diana disappeared from sight, I called her on the radio. Her voice was bright and lively, and I knew instinctively that she was happy, and safe. I walked back to the car and drove slowly along the only road that runs adjacent to the bay, with heath land and then the sea to my left and the waters of Poole Harbour running up toward Wareham, a small market town, to my right. Within a matter of minutes, I was turning into the car park of the Bankes Arms, a fine old pub that overlooks the bay. I left the car and strolled down to the beach, where I sat on an old wall in the bright sunshine. The beach huts were locked, and there was no sign of life. To my right I could see the Old Harry Rocks--three tall pinnacles of chalk standing in the sea, all that remains, at the landward end, of a ridge that once ran due east to the Isle of Wight. Like the Princess, I, too, just wanted to carry on walking. Suddenly, my radio crackled into life: “Ken, it’s me--can you hear me?” I fumbled in the large pockets of my old jacket, grabbed the radio, and said, “Yes. How is it going?” “Ken, this is amazing, I can’t believe it,” she said, sounding truly happy. Genuinely pleased for her, I hesitated before replying, but before I could speak she called again, this time with that characteristic mischievous giggle in her voice. “You never told me about the nudist colony!” she yelled, and laughed raucously over the radio. I laughed, too--although what I actually thought was “Uh-oh!” But judging from her remarks, whatever she had seen had made her laugh. At this point, I decided to walk toward her, after a few minutes seeing her distinctive figure walking along the water’s edge toward me. Two dogs had joined her and she was throwing sticks into the sea for them to retrieve; there were no crowd barriers, no servants, no police, apart from me, and no overattentive officials. Not a single person had recognized her. For once, everything for the Princess was “normal.” During the seven years I had worked for her, this was an extraordinary moment, one I shall never forget.

As soon as Christopher and Albert stepped up to the dais, he was disconcerted to hear a cheer rising from the crowd, spreading and growing until the noise was deafening. It wasn’t right for him to receive more acclamation than the other soldiers--they deserved just as much recognition for their courage and gallantry. And yet the ranks were cheering as well, humbling him utterly. Albert looked up at him uneasily, staying close to his side. “Easy, boy,” he murmured. The queen regarded the pair of them curiously as they stopped before her. “Captain Phelan,” she said. “Our subjects’ enthusiasm does you honor.” Christopher replied carefully. “The honor belongs to all the soldiers who have fought in Your Majesty’s service--and to the families who waited for them to return.” “Well and modestly said, Captain.” There was a slight deepening of the creases at the corners of her eyes. “Come forward.” As he complied, the queen leaned from the horse to pin the bronze cross with its crimson ribbon to his coat. Christopher made to withdraw, but she stopped him with a gesture and a word. “Remain.” Her attention switched to Albert, who sat on the dais and cocked his head as he regarded her curiously. “What is your companion’s name?” “His name is Albert, Your Majesty.” Her lips quirked as if she were tempted to smile. She slid a brief glance to her left, at the prince consort. “We are informed that he campaigned with you at Inkerman and Sebastopol.” “Yes, Your Majesty. He performed many difficult and dangerous duties to keep the men safe. This cross belongs partly to him--he assisted in recovering a wounded officer under enemy fire.” The general charged with handing the orders to the queen approached and gave her a curious object. It looked like…a dog collar? “Come forward, Albert,” she said. Albert obeyed promptly, sitting at the edge of the dais. The queen reached over and fastened the collar around his neck with a deft efficiency that revealed some experience with the procedure. Christopher recalled having heard that she owned several dogs and was partial to collies. “This collar,” she said to Albert, as if he could understand her, “has been engraved with regimental distinctions and battle honors. We have added a silver clasp to commend the valor and devotion you have displayed in our service.” Albert waited patiently until the collar was fastened, and then licked her wrist. “Impertinent,” she scolded in a whisper, and patted his head. And she sent a brief, discreet smile to Christopher as they left to make way for the next recipient.

I was born into a unique conjunction of female prime minister and monarch. To a child growing up in the 1980s, women ruled. Female heads were on coins and notes, criminals were incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and the queen’s armed forces fought a female politician’s wars. Accustomed

For they were, in the first place, even down to the very poorest, a well-fed people, with fewer luxuries than we, but more abundant necessaries; and while beef, ale, and good woollen clothes could be obtained in plenty, without overworking either body or soul, men had time to amuse themselves in something more intellectual than mere toping in pot-houses.

Four corners to my bed      Four angels round my head;      Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,      Bless the bed that I lie on.

I have lived long enough in courts, old Amyas, without a murrain on you, to have found out, first, that it is not so easy to shame the devil; and secondly, that it is better to outwit him; and the only way to do that, sweet chuck, is very often not to speak your mind at all.

who, like other weak men, grew in valor as his opponent seemed inclined to make peace,

His last words had hit the Jesuits hard. They had put the poor cobweb-spinners in mind of the humiliating fact, which they have had thrust on them daily from that time till now, and yet have never learnt the lesson, that all their scholastic cunning, plotting, intriguing, bulls, pardons, indulgences, and the rest of it, are, on this side the Channel, a mere enchanter's cloud-castle and Fata Morgana, which vanishes into empty air by one touch of that magic wand, the constable's staff. "A citizen of a free country!"—there was the rub; and they looked at each other in more utter perplexity than ever.

Fully agreeing with Sir Richard Grenville's great axiom, that he who cannot obey cannot rule, Lucy had been for the last five-and-twenty years training him pretty smartly to obey her, with the intention, it is to be charitably hoped, of letting him rule her in turn when his lesson was perfected.

Martyrdom, which looked so splendid when consummated selon les regles on Tower Hill or Tyburn, before pitying, or (still better) scoffing multitudes, looked a confused, dirty, ugly business there in the dark forest;

Up comes duty like a jolly breeze, blowing dead from the northeast, and as bitter and cross as a northeaster too, and tugs me away toward Ireland. I hold on by the rosebed—any ground in a storm—till every strand is parted, and off I go, westward ho! to get my throat cut in a bog-hole with Amyas Leigh." "Earnest,

He longed to marry Rose Salterne, with a wild selfish fury; but only that he might be able to claim her as his own property, and keep all others from her. Of her as a co-equal and ennobling helpmate; as one in whose honor, glory, growth of heart and soul, his own were inextricably wrapt up, he had never dreamed. Marriage would prevent God from being angry with that, with which otherwise He might be angry; and therefore the sanction of the Church was the more "probable and safe" course.

And when these failed, there was still boundless store of wonders open to her in old romances which were then to be found in every English house of the better class. The Legend of King Arthur, Florice and Blancheflour, Sir Ysumbras, Sir Guy of Warwick, Palamon and Arcite, and the Romaunt of the Rose, were with her text-books and canonical authorities. And lucky it was, perhaps, for her that Sidney's Arcadia was still in petto, or Mr. Frank (who had already seen the first book or two in manuscript, and extolled it above all books past, present, or to come) would have surely brought a copy down for Rose, and thereby have turned her poor little flighty brains upside down forever. And with her head full of these, it was no wonder if she had likened herself of late more than once to some of those peerless princesses of old, for whose fair hand paladins and kaisers thundered against each other in tilted field; and perhaps she would not have been sorry (provided, of course, no one was killed) if duels, and passages of arms in honor of her, as her father reasonably dreaded, had actually taken place. For

where the Coffins had lived ever since Noah's flood (if, indeed, they had not merely returned thither after that temporary displacement),

What breeds more close communion between subjects than allegiance to the same queen? between brothers, than duty to the same father? between the devout, than adoration for the same Deity? And shall not worship for the same beauty be likewise a bond of love between the worshippers? and each lover see in his rival not an enemy, but a fellow-sufferer?

if you do not know, reader, what a Fisher Hobbs is, you know nothing about pigs, and deserve no bacon for breakfast.

around which pigs and barefoot children grunted in loving communion of dirt.

He will know better when he has outgrown this same callow trick of honesty, and learnt of the great goddess Detraction how to show himself wiser than the wise, by pointing out to the world the fool's motley which peeps through the rents in the philosopher's cloak. Go to, lad! slander thy equals, envy thy betters, pray for an eye which sees spots in every sun, and for a vulture's nose to scent carrion in every rose-bed. If thy friend win a battle, show that he has needlessly thrown away his men; if he lose one, hint that he sold it; if he rise to a place, argue favor; if he fall from one, argue divine justice. Believe nothing, hope nothing, but endure all things, even to kicking, if aught may be got thereby; so shalt thou be clothed in purple and fine linen, and sit in kings' palaces, and fare sumptuously every day." "And

he came to the conclusion that there was some mysterious connection between cleverness and unhappiness, and thanking his stars that he was neither scholar, courtier, nor poet,

Battles (as soldiers know, and newspaper editors do not) are usually fought, not as they ought to be fought, but as they can be fought; and while the literary man is laying down the law at his desk as to how many troops should be moved here, and what rivers should be crossed there, and where the cavalry should have been brought up, and when the flank should have been turned, the wretched man who has to do the work finds the matter settled for him by pestilence, want of shoes, empty stomachs, bad roads, heavy rains, hot suns, and a thousand other stern warriors who never show on paper. So

Don't talk of rights in the land of wrongs, man. But the Inchiquin knows well that the true Irish Esau has no worse enemy than his supplanter, the Norman Jacob.

here, away from courts, among a people who should bless me as their benefactor and deliverer—what golden days might be mine! And yet—is this but another angel's mask from that same cunning fiend ambition's stage? And will my house be indeed the house of God, the foundations of which are loyalty, and its bulwarks righteousness, and not the house of fame, whose walls are of the soap-bubble, and its floor a sea of glass mingled with fire? I would be good and great—When will the day come when I shall be content to be good, and yet not great,

for when had the true faith been other than persecuted and trampled under foot? If one came to think of it with eyes purified from the tears of carnal impatience, what was it but a glorious martyrdom? "Blest

is it not written, that those who make haste to be rich, pierce themselves through with many sorrows?

(smile not, reader, for those were days in which men believed in the devil);

Ignorance and evil, even in full flight, deal terrible backhanded      strokes at their pursuers."—HELPS.

All eyes were eagerly fixed on the low wooded hills which slept in the moonlight, spangled by fireflies, with a million dancing stars; all nostrils drank greedily the fragrant air, which swept from the land, laden with the scent of a thousand flowers; all ears welcomed, as a grateful change from the monotonous whisper and lap of the water, the hum of insects, the snore of the tree-toads, the plaintive notes of the shore-fowl, which fill a tropic night with noisy life.

See now, God made all these things; and never a man, perhaps, set eyes on them till fifty years agone; and yet they were as pretty as they are now, ever since the making of the world. And why do you think God could have put them here, then, but to please Himself"—and Amyas took off his hat—"with the sight of them? Now, I say, brother Frank, what's good enough to please God, is good enough to please you and me.

For Nature, which has peopled the land with rational souls, may not have left the sea altogether barren of them

Qualis Natura formatrix, si talis formata? Oh my God, how fair must be Thy real world, if even Thy phantoms are so fair!

Of course, his own plan of letting ill alone was the rational, prudent, irreproachable plan, and just what any gentleman in his senses would have done; but here was a vulgar, fat curate, out of his senses, determined not to let ill alone, but to do something, as Cary felt in his heart, of a far diviner stamp.

Too many cooks spoil the broth, and half-a-dozen gentlemen aboard one ship are as bad as two kings of Brentford.

authority. She is a serious figure: Her Majesty, the British monarch and head of the Commonwealth. But as anyone who has ever met her will tell you, in person she is very warm and human with a well-developed sense of humour. Look at it another way,

Our guest”—she gave Nicolas a hard look, willing him to behave himself—“is not bound because Monsieur le Comte de Brillac has expressed a desire to become our ally.” Miss Gwen snorted. “Oh, is that what he’s calling himself now?” Miles looked at Miss Gwen with interest. “Do you mean the count thingy, or ally?” Nicolas stepped into the middle of the room with the grace of a born performer. “Both, I assure you, are true. The title of Comte de Brillac comes to me from my mother’s husband. Ally, I hope, is a title I may earn.” He bowed towards the door, where four marines were staggering beneath the burden of an unconscious Braganza. “May Her Majesty Queen Maria be the first token of my good intentions.” “Rather a large token,” muttered Miles. “The size of the token,” said Nicolas, with a courtly bow, “is a representation of the sincerity of my commitment.” Or of Queen Maria’s fondness for biscoitos, but Jane decided not to press that point.

fear. “Bridge here.” “This is the Empress Consort,” she said, liking the sound of it as soon as she’d said it. “Have the imperial tailors sent to my quarters immediately.” “Right away, Your Majesty,” Finney said, sounding like a scolded child. “Bridge out.” Despite her best efforts at equanimity, a slightly insane smile and wide-eyed mask of glee took over Marlena’s face. Even after catching sight of her Cheshire cat grin in the mirror, she couldn’t suppress it. Just as she’d always suspected, it was good to be queen.

And, short of a revolution, the greatest threat to the throne has always been indifference. By

I shall never forget that day in the merry month of May 1968, when I walked into his haute couture salon at Queen Elizabeth II’s favourite store, Fortnum & Mason. This store was bestowed a Royal Warrant of Appointment, a mark of recognition for vendors that supply goods or services to the royal households of Her Majesty the Queen.

Ah, my brother, you cannot comprehend the pain of parting from her." "No, I can't. I would die for the least hair of her royal head, God bless it! but I could live very well from now till Doomsday without ever setting eyes on the said head.

Why should we long for the next world, before we are fit even for this one?

They had slipped past the southern point of Grenada in the night, and were at last within that fairy ring of islands, on which nature had concentrated all her beauty, and man all his sin.

And where are you going, Admiral? . . . Don’t you ever sleep?” She sensed him kneeling down beside her, felt his breath on her cheek as he lovingly absorbed every detail of her face and smoothed the wispy hair that had come loose from the braid. “Sleep? Not when my lovely Queen is under my protection. I am an officer, Majesty, and I have my sworn duty.” An officer. Guarding the lives of those he loved. “I love you, Maeve,” he said softly, and kissed her.

The Pirate Queen did not seem amused. I hope you intend to bring that poor girl more happiness than it appears you have already brought her!” “Have no fear of that, milord. Following my business with you, and my fleet, I’ll have Colin take me to her island so I can claim her and rectify the situation immediately.” He raised his glass and gave a sly grin. “Her days of plundering the Spanish Main are, I can assure you, about to end.” “I should damn well hope so,” Nelson snapped. “Should the Admiralty in London learn of your antics, it’d be disastrous enough, but if you were to involve yourself with a pirate, they’d waste no time demanding your resignation regardless of how many laurels your career boasts.” “All the more reason to put an end to Her Majesty’s piratical pursuits, now.

Is Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the second, by the Grace of God, still monarch of any African realm? No. this couldn’t be a protest against Her Majesty to abdicate any African realm. No! Or is he or she avenging the substitution of African beliefs with Western culture by the British Missionaries who destroyed their culture and heritage?

Will you get fat?" the king blurted out at Luce,eyeing her corset-squeezed waist. "I like the way she looks now," he said to the duke. "But I don't want her to get fat." Had she been in her own body, Luce might have told the king exactly what she thought of his unappealing physique. But Lys had perfect composure, and Luce felt herself reply, "I should hope to always please the king,with my looks and with my temperament." "Yes,of course," the duke purred, walking a tight circle around Luce. "I'm sure His Majesty could keep the princess on the diet of his choice." "What about hunting?" the king asked. "Your Majesty," the duke began to say, "that isn't befitting a queen. You have plenty of other hunting companions. I,for one-" "My father is an excellent hunter," Luce said. Her brain was whirling, working toward something-anything-that might help her escape this scene. "Should I bed down with your father, then?" the king sneered. "Knowing Your Majesty likes guns," Luce said, straining to keep her tone polite, "I have brought you a gift-my father's most prized hunting rifle. He'd asked me to bring it to you this evening,but I wasn't sure when I'd have the pleasure of making your acquaintance." She had the king's full attention. He was perched on the edge of this throne. "What's it look like? Are there jewels in its butt?" "The...the stock is hand-carved from cherrywood," she said,feeding the king the details Bill called out from where he stood beside the king's chair. "The bore was milled by-by-" "Oh,what would sound impressive? By a Russian metalworker who has since gone to work for the czar." Bill leaned over the king's pastries and sniffed hungrily. "These look good.

Anjelica put her hand on her back. «Forged by the lava of your Kingdom, for you, your Majesty. Your swords.» «I don't want them.» Anjelica put a hand on the box. «Noboer,» uttered, and the box vanished. «Anyway, you can't hold them, your Majesty, since you are not Goddess yet. Only the Queen of the Underworld can touch these swords without being crushed by the weight of the Kingdom. You will have them when you will decide, your Majesty.»

You’re such a drama queen, you know that Varian?” she rolled her eyes and smirked. I winked. “You may address me as Her Royal Majesty.

From the First World War to his death eighteen years later, George V spent just eight weeks abroad. George VI travelled widely as Duke of York but for much of his reign his capacity for travel was curtailed by war and ill health. The Queen, who had never left the country until shortly before her twenty-first birthday, has visited 135 separate nations, some of them several times. And yet she had to wait until she was eighty-five to visit the nearest of the lot – the Republic of Ireland – in May 2011.

Prince Philip can be equally forthright when it comes to long sermons. As he once remarked: ‘The mind cannot absorb what the backside cannot endure.

Her majesty is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis.

THE PASSING DESERT WARRIOR - AMINAT Bridled by the cries of her people, she lingered in thoughts seeing the poison her hasty swing could crush the praying heart. She bent in reverence to fate as hope hold no drop from its gold jar. Her majesty withered in the face of the beast, how low her lone fight had no justice. For once evil defeated good and a second chance is given to her time had gone and after 200 years good will rule again. For Queen Aminat Sulaiman (c) Victor UzihBen

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is the only person I can think of to lead us through the troubling times Canada finds itself in today.

Philip was full of the news when he arrived to share a coffee with her after lunch. "Lilibet, did you hear the man was nude?" "Yes, actually, I did." "Strung up like a Tory MP. There's a word for it. What is it? Auto-sex something?" "Autoerotic asphyxiation," the Queen said grimly. She had Googled it on her iPad.

Gavin Humphreys was a methodical man who lived by an old adage, beloved of his military father, known as the Seven Ps: Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. The director general of M15 planned, he was prepared, and he never expected to underperform.

So he gets a knighthood, and he goes on thinking she's a dim old lady who lives in a nice castle?" "A dim old lady he works his guts out for, right or wrong." Rozie shook her head. "I still can't get my head around it. I mean, who has that much..." "Self-discipline?" "Yeah." "One person in the world, I'd say. Enjoy it while you can.

I cannot lead you into battle, I do not give you laws or administer justice, but I can do something else: I can give my heart and my devotion to these old islands and to all the peoples of our brotherhood of nations.” Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

God Bless The Queen Mother Ode to her Majesty God bless the Queen Mother Grant her many years of life We need her in our lives Show her everlasting love Cover her with power from Above God bless the Queen Mother A descendant of royalty As she goes in and out of the city To serve with loyalty and dignity May she have serenity God bless the Queen Mother Whether down the valley or up the hill On the battlefield, may she win Please keep her still As she honours your will God bless the Queen Mother Throughout seasons Wherever she goes And whatever she does Let her be favoured God bless the Queen Mother!

Her Majesty the Queen is here And loyal subjects raise a cheer His Royal Highness by her side A Royal welcome to Chirnside God bless them both in all they do And praise and glory be to you God bless the men from Windsor Locks And pretty girls in summer frocks Bless all whose intellect and skill Have just extended Dexter's Mill Bless all the people they employ May skill and safety be their joy May their customers come drovin' For their Hydraspun Nonwoven Bless the good folk of Berwickshire Who make the products we require Lord, look down in love and pity On all your folk in tea bag city Bless our food and bless our table Help us do what we are able To make the world a better place And so bless all the human race ["Grace At The Queen's Royal Visit," Tea, A Magazine, December 1994, p 6]

I have in sincerity pledged myself to your service, as so many of you are pledged to mine. Throughout all my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust.” Her Majesty at the Coronation in 1953

Between ourselves, I think they use too many rich sauces. One never gets the true flavor of the meat or vegetable. Her Majesty's favorite accompaniment to roast beef is a horseradish cream sauce that is so hot the meat must taste like paper. Most of the vegetables the queen eats are made into purees. And her meat is often turned into ragouts and terrines. Some dishes mix too many flavors. The queen loves butter and cream with everything. So bad for her." And I grinned. He nodded as if he understood. "So you have a palate that appreciates the taste of good ingredients?" "I do." "And how did you develop this?" "I must have inherited it from my father, who had lived well and appreciated fine food. I was apprenticed to a good cook who produced simple English fare- pork chops, roast lamb, roast pheasant, chicken, sole, lobster. There was a sauce to accompany them, but it never overwhelmed the flavor of the meat or fish.

Is Her Majesty, Queen Luciee of Calnor, an animal that intends to eat her own young?

One evening, a male friend hosting a house party was interrupted by a frantic call from the princess, who was threatening to commit suicide by throwing herself from her bedroom window. Panicked, the gentleman rang up the queen, who remained unfazed by her sister's dramatics. With characteristic sangfroid Her Majesty informed the caller to "carry on with your house party. Her bedroom is on the ground floor.

Mulan found it easier to face the morning by pretending that her clothes were armor. The stiff coronation robe Ting was smoothing down over her shoulders? She imagined it woven with threads of spun gold, the embroidered phoenixes stitched with blazing-red iron. Her sash, hanging loose down her back, was a shoulder guard of blue iron, and the phoenixes on her shoes were spikes and spurs. “Please keep your head forward, Empress.” A handmaiden gripped a handful of hair, pulling it taut enough to make Mulan’s eyes water. The hair, at least, was easy to imagine as a helmet. By the time the maid finished wrapping it around multiple combs and adorning the layered buns with everything from flowers to jade to tiny golden bells, Mulan’s coiffure would stop arrows far better than anything the imperial blacksmiths could craft. The maid inserted one last pin and stepped back. “All done.” She pulled the train of Mulan’s robe out as Mulan stepped in front of a full-length mirror. Mulan’s reflection was warped and metallic on the coppery finish, but she could see that she was made up as intricately as the finest ladies of court, her face powdered white, her eyes lined with charcoal, and her lips painted red as her sash. Her eyebrows had been shaved and drawn back in with blue-black pigment. Tiny silver beads adorned her yellow-tinted forehead, and three flowers had been painted on her right cheek. “Armor,” Mulan said under her breath. “Your Majesty?” “Nothing, just talking to myself.

Where is Her Majesty?” “I’m sorry?” “Where. Is. She?” “I-I’m truly sorry, Your Highness. We all insisted that she evacuate with us, but...” “So she is still on the front lines, then?” “Y-Yes, she is, Your Highness.” Hearing this, Sophie flew into a rage. “And all of you turned tail and fled while leaving your queen to die?!

Yes, I will ask his majesty which he prefers, to see the queen mother forever dying, prostrate on a bed from which she will never again rise, with her earthly body shamefully clinging to her soul, or to see her, by dying, triumph over death, in the eternal, splendid glory of the heavens, Surely no one would hesitate over which answer to give,

Celaena Sardothien halted a healthy distance away and lifted her chin. “Tell His Majesty that his Champion has returned—and she’s brought him one hell of a prize.

Phantom choked on the porridge. Brother Thomas pounded him on the back while Phantom reached for, then drank from a small wooden cup. He gave a menacing glare to Thomas, who immediately halted his hand in the mid-pounding stroke position. “Pardon?” Phantom asked once he’d regained some composure. “I wish to go home and I need a guide and guard.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll get neither from me, Your Majesty. I will not return there. Ever.” “Why are we returning with Phantom, my queen?” She glanced over to Lutian. “I’ll explain later.” Then she looked back at Phantom. “I can pay you a fortune.” Phantom scoffed at that. “Coin is ever useless to a corpse.” She arched a brow at him. “Are you afraid, then?” He laughed bitterly. “Hardly, and you’ll never get me to agree by calling me craven.” “Then what will it take?” Phantom wiped his mouth, then gave Brother Thomas an almost amused smirk. “You haven’t enough money, power, or influence to buy me, Your Majesty. There are some things—few, I grant you, but some—that are not for purchase. My loyalty, or in this case stupidity, will not be bartered for any price.” He picked his cup up and lifted it in a mock salute. “Work your wiles on your husband. He’s the greater fool of the two of us.” Her throat tight, Adara struggled for composure. “And therein lies the problem. I’ve no wish to work my wiles on him, either. He’s suffered enough in this.” -Phantom, Adara, & Lutian

You are a good man, Ioan,” she said to him. “By all appearances, a fine and capable leader as well. A queen could do well with a man such as you by her side.” Christian’s ears perked up at her words. Even though his body was throbbing from pain, he didn’t miss the look of heat that came into Ioan’s eyes, or the speculative gleam in Adara’s. It made his vision dim. Ioan gave her a hot, seductive smile. “I appreciate your compliment, Majesty. While we await your quarters being prepared, would you like to have something to eat?” His wife all but preened under the Welshman’s look. “Aye, my lord. We are truly famished and your kindness would be most appreciated.” Christian’s sight dimmed even more as he watched her coy smile. She even batted her eyelashes. This was more than he could stand. “Abbot?” Phantom asked. “Are you all right?” “I am fine,” he said from between clenched teeth. Phantom scoffed. “Whatever you say.” “He looks ill to me,” Lutian said. “Rather green and red. Can’t tell if he’s angry or vomitous.” Christian slanted a look at the fool that had him retreating. Adara felt a modicum of satisfaction at her husband’s ill humor until she saw the reddish stain that was barely discernible through the black cloth of his robe. “You’re bleeding,” she said sternly, moving to stand beside him. Christian tried to brush her off, but she would have none of it. Her anger flared. “Cease with your stubbornness, Christian. Your wounds need to be tended.” He glared at her. She glared back. Ioan whistled low. “Phantom, who is the queen, that Christian would tolerate her thusly?” Phantom folded his arms over his chest as he watched them. “His wife.” “Only until our marriage is annulled,” Christian snapped. Adara put her hands on her hips as she continued to glower at him. “Well, if you stand there until you bleed to death, we won’t need an annulment, now, will we?” Phantom sucked his breath between his teeth. “The queen has gotten a bit snippy, eh?” Christian looked to Ioan. “Have you a healer in your company?” Ioan snorted at that as he looked back and forth from Christian to Adara. “Heed my words well, Abbot, no man who possesses his full sense will ever come between a woman and her husband.” -Adara, Ioan, Phantom, Christian, & Lutian

I’m so sorry it troubled you. I hope you’ll forgive me for both the pea and the eavesdropping. You see, I had to listen in, as I knew a real princess with good manners would never complain to her host. And you’ve been so proper not to complain. Please don’t hold this against me.” Adara smiled at the queen. “Of course not,” she said, deciding flattery was her best option. “You’d be a fool to believe every girl who showed up at your doorstep and claimed to be a princess. It was a wise test, Your Majesty.

Her Majesty the Queen teaches me a deep human truth-that motherhood has a pen name: guilt.

Frick was the card palmer and Frak thought he’d perfected a card pass that was undetectable, but was about as subtle as a wet bar rag in the face.  When they cheated the dumb shits didn’t have enough sense to make sure they had the winning hands.  Frick would palm a jack or a couple of queens or Frak would hold back two or three tens.

Come forward." As he complied, the queen leaned from the horse to pin the bronze cross with its crimson ribbon to his coat. Christopher made to withdraw, but she stopped him with a gesture and a word. "Remain." Her attention switched to Albert, who sat on the dais and cocked his head as he regarded her curiously. "What is your companion's name?" "His name is Albert, Your Majesty." Her lips quirked as if she were tempted to smile. She slid a brief glance to her left, at the prince consort. "We are informed that he campaigned with you at Inkerman and Sebastopol." "Yes, Your Majesty. He performed many difficult and dangerous duties to keep the men safe. This cross belongs partly to him- he assisted in recovering a wounded officer under enemy fire." The general charged with handing the orders to the queen approached and gave her a curious object. It looked like... a dog collar? "Come forward, Albert," she said. Albert obeyed promptly, sitting at the edge of the dais. The queen reached over and fastened the collar around his neck with a deft efficiency that revealed some experience with the procedure. Christopher recalled having heard that she owned several dogs and was partial to collies. "This collar," she said to Albert, as if he could understand her, "has been engraved with regimental distinctions and battle honors. We have added a silver clasp to commend the valor and devotion you have displayed in our service." Albert waited patiently until the collar was fastened, and then licked her wrist. "Impertinent," she scolded in a whisper, and patted his head. And she sent a brief, discreet smile to Christopher as they left to make way for the next recipient.

On Thursday morning, that is yesterday, Mademoiselle hoped that the King would sign the contract as he had promised, but by seven in the evening His Majesty, being persuaded by the Queen, Monsieur and divers greybeards that this business was harmful to his reputation, decided to break it off, and after summoning Mademoiselle and M. de Lauzun, declared to them, in the presence of Monsieur le Prince, that he forbade their thinking any more about this marriage. M. de Lauzun received this order with all the respect, all the submissiveness, all the stoicism and all the despair that such a great fall required. As for Mademoiselle, according to her mood she burst into tears, cries, violent outbursts of grief, exaggerated lamentations, and she remained in bed all day, taking nothing but broth. So much for a beautiful dream, a fine subject for a novel or a tragedy, but above all for arguing and talking for ever and ever. And that is what we are doing day and night, evening and morning, on and on without respite. We hope you will do the same. Upon which I most humbly kiss your hands.

Many Americans often refer to Elizabeth II as ‘Queen Elizabeth of England’ - however, as any Brit will tell you, that’s wrong - they’ll say she is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. But of course they’re wrong as well. Her majesty is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis. Phew!

She squinted, straining to make out who stood there. “W-who do you wait for?” Houlun had said the Valg had once passed through here— The spider brushed aside the dirt crusted over the figure. Revealing long, flowing hair etched there. And what she’d thought to be a cloak … It was a dress. “Our queen,” the spider said. “We wait for Her Dark Majesty to return at last.” “Not—not Erawan?” Servants to a dark crown, Houlun had said … The spider spat, the venom landing near Sartaq’s covered feet. “Not him. Never him.” “Then who—” “We wait for the Queen of the Valg,” the spider purred, rubbing against the carving. “Who in this world calls herself Maeve.

If this had been France, and the Queen had been Louis XIV, it would have been done by now-but it was England, Parliament had its knobby fingers around the Monarch’s throat, and Whigs and Tories were joined in an eternal shin-kicking contest to determine which faction should have the honor of throttling her Majesty, and how hard.

Oh!” the Queen said, visibly shaken. “Is that a cupcake?” The crowning glory of the dessert table was a tower of pink flamingo feather cupcakes. Red turned to the royal baker, who was quivering in their boots. “Ma’am…Your Majesty, I’m so sorry….I found an old recipe of yours….” “Get it out of my sight!” the Queen hissed. Then she patted her brow with a red handkerchief. Red wondered what that was all about. She’d never seen her mother fall apart at the sight of a cupcake before. Then again, she realized she’d never really seen a cupcake before either. She wondered what they tasted like. But perhaps she’d never know, since the baker was taking a tray of them away. The Queen clapped again, back to looking like herself. “So! Birthdays are still illegal. Treats are discouraged! Especially cupcakes. What’s more, all laughter should be avoided before noon—it simply is not good for your heart to laugh so early! Perhaps it’s better not to laugh at all! This obviously means that jokes shall only be told every other Saturday, if one feels the absolute need.” But from her tone it was clear that no one should ever feel the need to tell a joke.

Old age, which Alexandra had defied for so long, caught up with her at last. Her deafness became almost total. Unable to reconcile herself to the loss of her fabled good looks, she secluded herself at Sandringham, where she repined her own decrepitude. ‘Ugly old woman,’ she said. ‘Nobody likes me any more.’26 King George and Queen Mary were unfailingly kind and attentive, but they were greatly saddened by her deterioration. ‘It is so hard to see that beautiful woman come to this,’ Mary said.27 On 19 November 1925, Alexandra had a heart attack. Her son and daughter-in-law were with her when she died the following day.

When George died in January 1936, grief was widespread and sincere, but there was no repetition of the mass mourning of 1910. Court mourning was reduced to nine months, and general mourning was laid aside immediately after the funeral. When George VI died in February 1952, Court mourning was further reduced to ten weeks, and there was no general mourning at all.31 By that stage, Queen Mary had lived to witness the passing of four successive monarchs. At her son’s lying-in-state in Westminster Hall, she was photographed in all the trappings of Edwardian bereavement: black cap, black veil, black gloves and a floor-length black dress. To her left was her daughter-in-law, the widowed Queen Elizabeth. To her right, sorrow etched clearly on her face, was Queen Elizabeth II.

Upon the passing of Queen Alexandra, her remains, and those of Edward, were interred beside each other in the tomb, which was finally revealed in a low-key ceremony in the autumn of 1927. Of white Carrara marble, the recumbent figures of the King and Queen appear timeless in their inscrutable dignity. Alexandra wears a diadem, while Edward nurses his sceptre. Both are clad in flowing robes. Only upon closer inspection does a personal touch reveal itself. Nestled at Edward’s feet is a representation of his terrier, Caesar, who had moved the nation to tears during the funeral procession through the streets of London in May 1910. Inseparable from his master in life, he is now bonded to him in death: forlorn but tranquil, and faithful to the end.

Can you imagine what would have happened if you didn't believe in your dream? If you you didn't believe in yourself? If you didn't believe you could do it? That you are The Monarch? - Said Her Majesty Queen Lauren

The iconoclastic playwright George Bernard Shaw judged the whole business to be gratuitous, if not downright reprehensible. Making a plea on behalf of lower-middle-class parents who found themselves obliged to kit out their offspring with new outfits they could ill afford, he demanded to know ‘why our schools should be deliberately made hideous with black because an honourable public career has come to its natural close’. He suggested that little boys and girls should sport violet ribbons as a gesture ‘correct, inexpensive and pretty’.19 For the most part, his words fell upon deaf ears. Even the poorest were determined to do what they could to project an appropriate sense of loss. On her way to pay her condolences to Edward’s sister, Princess Louise, Mrs Arthur Thesiger passed an elderly tramp on the pavement outside Kensington Palace. His coat and trousers were in rags, but he wore a clean new mourning tie around his neck. When she heard about it, the princess burst into tears. ‘It was so touching,’ she told Queen Alexandra.

The Prince of Wales was, Victoria admitted, her ‘caricature’, every bit as stubborn and wilful as she was herself. Not that she found the similarity endearing. On the contrary, courtiers believed that history was repeating itself. ‘The hereditary and unfailing antipathy of our Sovereigns to their Heir Apparent seems . . . early to be taking root, and the Queen does not much like the child,’ noted the diarist Charles Greville.

Her Majesty Queen Bridget of Eldorra,” the archbishop declared. “Long may she reign!

The whole congregation, as they did so, was gripped by a ‘royal silence that the sacredness of the place and the majesty of her office demanded – a real silence.’ Gavard had not been particularly impressed with the sight of the Queen: ‘fat and short…with a discontented-looking face’; but that silence – not the natural silence of the void, as he recalled, but ‘the silence of thousands of people holding their breath at the presence of the monarch finally among them’ – was quite extraordinary.61It was a ‘thrilling moment’, Munby recalled, when the organ sounded out, just as the sun broke through the clouds outside and ‘sent beams of slanting light down through the misty vault of the dome, upon the gold and scarlet and purple crowds below’. As the 250-strong choir burst into the words of the Te Deum, Lucy Cavendish, like many others, felt a shudder of recognition: ‘Never before had I realised what a Psalm of Thanksgiving it is, and most beautiful and moving were the words specially dwelt upon by the music:…“When Thou hadst overcome the sharpness of death”.

No,” the spider said, something like a smile in its voice. “For Her Dark Majesty had left these mountains, had found another land, and prepared herself well. She knew that one day she would be found. And planned to hide within plain sight. So she did. She came across a lovely, long-lived people—near-immortals themselves—ruled over by two sister-queens.” Mab and Mora.

Your loyalty to my Queen.” Luther paused. “Her Majesty needs allies. Strong ones. Allies who are not afraid of the Twenty Houses.

what she’d thought to be a cloak … It was a dress. “Our queen,” the spider said. “We wait for Her Dark Majesty to return at last.

And that was thirty years ago. Time flew. It crawled. Sometimes, you didn't know how you would endure until teatime. Sometimes, half a decade was gone in the blink of an eye.

My dear, you can't afford it. A candle called Ernesto. It's supposed to remind one of the cigar smoke of revolutionaries. I've always adored it.

She sensed they shared something that neither found very often in other people. A love of art and music and beautiful things, yes, but she knew loads of friends who had that, too. It was something about this art, this> music, these things. And it wasn't in any way sexual or crude, as Lulu Arantes had suggested. She felt perfectly safe with him.

. . . that the light and shadow on the faces was very clever, and the women were beautiful but also interesting, like real women - the ones she knew. People with complicated interior lives, caught in the moment. They had been quite lovely.

He had captured something very few artists managed, which was a sense that she was reflecting on more than the act of being captured on canvas, or being queen. In fact, she was rarely thinking about either. There was so much to absorb her attention. She was glad that future generations might get a glimpse of her actively contemplating a world beyond one's own.

She saw herself. And the image of her sun-bronzed husband heading for her across the water, beaming. These were the memories that made the rest of it possible. What could be more precious than that?

All eyes were fixed on Alexandra, who, in defiance of protocol, followed on the arm of the King. Stately and erect in her black gown and flowing veil, the blue sash of the Garter across her breast, she lent what Margot Asquith called a ‘thrilling touch of beauty & pathos’ to what had, until then, been a fairly shambolic scene. Throughout her married life, Alexandra’s inexhaustible appeal to the hearts and imaginations of the British people had inspired love, and even adulation. Her last moments with her husband of almost half a century were to be her apotheosis. ‘She has the finest carriage and walks better than any one of our time,’ marvelled Margot, ‘& not only has grace, charm and real beauty, but all the atmosphere of a fascinating female queen for whom men & women die.

Edward’s final meeting with his mistress was as harrowing as that with his banker was dignified. Even before the news was broken to the nation, the atmosphere surrounding Mrs Keppel was fraught. From her nursery window, nine-year-old Sonia could see knots of people clustered on the pavements, and strangers buttonholing each other for the latest. Inside, the servants were distracted and grim. Fifteen-year-old Violet was clearly in on the secret but refused to divulge any details. That afternoon, Mrs Keppel presented a letter to the Queen, which Edward had written to her almost a decade earlier. In the event he was ever taken seriously ill, he asked her to come and see him ‘so that I may say farewell and thank you for all your kindness and friendship since it has been my good fortune to know you’. He concluded with a thinly veiled order to his wife and children: ‘I feel convinced that all those who have any affection for me will carry out the wishes which I expressed in these lines.’37 Always magnanimous to her husband’s lovers, Alexandra invited Mrs Keppel to the Palace at 5 p.m. By then, the King was being kept alive with strychnine. At 1 p.m., he had had a heart attack and was believed to be dead. Coming round, he had drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours. At 4.30 p.m., the Prince of Wales informed him that his horse, Witch of the Air, had just won by half a length at Kempton Park. ‘I am very glad,’ Edward murmured.38 When Mrs Keppel arrived, he barely recognised her. According to Lord Esher, who heard a full account from Francis Knollys, the Queen shook hands and told her, ‘I am sure you have always had a good influence over him.

A clown upon a throne wears only borrowed dignity, for laughter cannot crown him king. Yet a queen in rags still carries her majesty, for no torn garment can strip the soul of its reign.

Queen Victoria, through her secretary Sir Henry Ponsonby, said: ‘Her Majesty considers you have done your duty at your Office not only to her entire satisfaction, but also in a manner which has proved to be of great benefit to the public.’ This also, surely, is above and beyond the requirements of mere politeness. The fact is that Bertie had been the right man in the right place, and had done an excellent job.