Free Powerstone by Malcolm Archibald

‘Anyway, it’s all on the Internet,
if you can be bothered to search. Is it Edinburgh Castle you are interested in, or just
castles in general? Scotland ’s got plenty to choose from.’
    ‘Only Edinburgh .’ Irene’s smile had charmed
scores of men in her career, but the sergeant seemed immune. She got the
disturbing impression that he was assessing her even as she asked the
questions. ‘We really loved your crown jewels,’ she said breathlessly, ‘does
the Queen wear them when she comes to Scotland ?’
    ‘Not any more,’ the sergeant said.
His smile seemed to have disappeared as he moved his attention from Irene to
Patrick. ‘She likes them to stay in the castle so that everybody can see how
rich she is.’
    ‘Come on, Sarge!’ one of the
privates shouted across the room. ‘Stop chatting up that woman before I tell
your wife.’ There was a series of catcalls and whistles that caught the
attention of the barmen. ‘Bring her over here instead!’
    The smile was back on the
sergeant’s face. ‘You’re in demand. Come on over and meet the Jocks.’
    ‘The what?’ Patrick looked confused,
until Irene nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘The soldiers,’ she explained,
fiercely. She nodded to the sergeant. ‘Glad to,’ she said. An opportunity to
talk to members of the garrison was potentially invaluable. If she could ply
them with drink, they might speak about the security arrangements for the
Honours. ‘Come on Patrick. You should feel quite at home.’ She gave her most
seductive smile to the sergeant. ‘He was in the Marines.’
    The sergeant nodded, understanding
softening his eyes. ‘I thought there was something, but we won’t hold it
against him,’ he dragged their chairs across the room, with the patrons of the
pub clearing before them.
    The soldiers were younger than
Irene had thought; boys barely out of their teens with thin faces and strain in
their laughing eyes. They welcomed her like a sister, nodded to Patrick and
began an exchange of quick-fire repartee that left her floundering. Leaning
back in her seat, Irene waited for a gap in the conversation before she
attempted flattery.
    ‘So what are you? Special Forces?’
    The laugh was predictable as the
soldiers glanced at each other. The youngest spoke. ‘No, we’re real soldiers.
The government calls us the Royal Scots Borderers, first battalion of the Royal
Regiment of Scotland, but everyone else knows that we’re the Royal Scots.’
    Irene saw the sergeant hide a
smile and guessed that there was some dispute between the British government
and the serving soldiers. She put the information aside in case she could use
it later.
    ‘Royal Scots? That sounds
impressive. I bet you’re all combat veterans.’
    ‘Up the Royals!’ A red haired
private shouted, causing a few heads in the pub to turn. Seeing the reaction,
the other two privates joined in.
    ‘Up the Royals! Up Pontius
Pilate’s Bodyguard!’ There was slight bitterness in the laughter.
    ‘Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard?’ The
significance was lost on Irene.
    ‘It’s an old joke,’ the sergeant
explained. ‘There was an argument once, about 1640, when the Royals were
serving with the French. We claimed precedence over one of the senior regiments
of the French Army, and they objected.’ He grinned. ‘I’d like to have seen
that. Anyway, one of the French officers said that the Royals had been asleep
at their posts, and said that if we even predated them, we must be Pontius
Pilate’s Bodyguard. Our lot just laughed, and said that if we had been,
Christ’s body would never have left the sepulchre. So we’ve been Pontius
Pilate’s Bodyguard ever since.’ His smile was suddenly sour. ‘Until the
government decided to destroy centuries of tradition with a pen.’ He
disappeared for a minute, returning with a tray on which were six pints of
beer. ‘Come on lads, I’ll be leaving soon.’
    ‘Leaving?’
    ‘Back to work.’ The sergeant
passed around the drinks. ‘Do