Tryst

TRYST 

Sir Alec pulled back the sumptuous silk bedclothes of the four-poster bed and walked to the window to peer out at the misty dawn over Sandringham. 

"Tongues will wag, your majesty, you can bet your bones." 

"Look, I've told you not to worry; Philip won't be out of hospital for another two days. There are no reporters here, you can relax." 

"But what if the old fella carps it in the night, eh? There'll be dozens of paps before you know it, and I'll have to hide in the fucking broom cupboard." 

"Oh stop it, Alec. If I can't invite a knight of the realm to hunt on my private estate, what's the bloody point of being a monarch? You worry too much; Phil will be fine, he always is. Now come back to bed and protect your queen, there's a good knight. You'll catch a cold standing there in your long johns." 

"Och no me, your majesty. I'm fit as a butcher's dog, raised in the Gorbals." 

"I can see that. You are in remarkable shape for such a veteran campaigner." 

"Aye, it takes the Duke of Glasgow to reach the parts the Duke of Edinburgh cannae. The man's a fucking fanny, god knows what you see in him." 

"Now now, Alec. Your face goes all red when you get angry... or excited. Next thing you'll start spitting, like you used to before your people told you to chew gum instead.” 

The Queen smiled to herself mischievously for a moment before sitting up and adjusting her crown: "Sir Alex Ferguson.” 

"What is it, hen?" 

"I command you to come back to bed right this instant and spit on my gorbals."  

"As you wish, your majesty."