Eva Ibbotson - The Dragonfly Pool

It was still difficult not to be upset by the empty German tent, but the other teams, all dressed now in their dancing clothes, looked really festive. The Italians with their sashes and bright kerchiefs, the French girls with their white headdresses… the Yugoslavs in goatskin jackets with feathers in their caps… Lots would be drawn after the ceremony to decide the order in which the teams would dance.

They made their way over the bridge, joined by crowds of people in their best clothes and children waving flags. In the square they were given their places. The Deldertonians were in the front, against the ropes that marked off the route the king would take as he rode toward the platform on which the distinguished guests would sit. The visitors would come on through the double doors of the town hall, but the king and the prince would mount by special wooden steps from the square.

The crowd was in a party mood, wanting to forget the crises and threats that beset their country.

Now the great doors opened and the mayor, in his gold chain, took his seat on the platform, followed by the lord chief justice and the prime minister. When Gambetti appeared with his wife there was some booing in the crowd, but it was quickly hushed — today was not a day for politics.

Stiefelbreich marched on in his jackboots. For a moment his face turned toward the attic of the Blue Ox and then away again. More and more people filed on to the platform. The clock in the tower on the north side of the square struck eleven, and eleven apostles came out, marched woodenly out of their niches and went back again.

“We’ve got a really good view,” said Tally.

“Matteo hasn’t,” Julia pointed out.

This was true. Matteo was standing behind an exceptionally tall and heavily built policeman in a brass helmet, one of a whole contingent who was lining the route.

“There’s room here,” called Tally, but Matteo only raised a hand and stayed where he was.

There was the sound of rousing music, a rustle of excitement from the crowd — and the procession which had set off from the palace entered the square.

“We’ll give them something to remember,” the king had told his son, so he rode the gray Thoroughbred that was kept for state occasions and wore his most dazzling uniform, that of the Berganian Rifles in scarlet and white and gold. The prince, riding his favorite chestnut, was hardly less grand. Ignoring the discomfort of the scratchy braid around his throat and the ludicrously tight trousers, he had chosen the uniform of the Mountain Cuirassiers because here was something worth dressing up for: not a dead saint or a railway station but a festival made by children who had come together from everywhere — and a girl who had brought her friends to honor the king.

Behind them rode Uncle Fritz, the minister of culture, then came the household cavalry, the men-at-arms, the band of the fusiliers…

There were shouts of “Long live the King!… Long live Johannes!” People climbed up lampposts to see better. There had never been such enthusiasm for this ruler, who had become a hero to his people.

The procession was drawing level with the place where the children from Delderton were standing. Everything was going as expected — the marching men, the trotting horses, the band…

Then the burly policeman who was standing in front of Matteo shifted to one side — and everything changed.

The king reined in his horse and came to a stop — and as the king stopped so did those who were behind him. The sound of the band spluttered and died away, and in the silence that followed, the king’s words rang loud and clear.

“Seize that man!” he cried. “Hold him! Don’t let him go!”

And he pointed directly at Matteo, standing very straight among the children he had brought.

The policeman who had been standing in front of Matteo grabbed his arm, and a second officer came forward to help restrain him. Matteo did not struggle. All the time he stood erect and looked steadily at the king.

“Bring him here,” ordered the king.

While the crowd murmured and wondered and craned their necks to see the criminal, Johannes dismounted and handed the reins to his son.

Then he stepped forward and lifted the rope that separated him from the crowd and let it fall, and at the same time Matteo freed himself and moved toward the king.

There was a moment of total silence. Then the king’s arms came around Matteo and the two men embraced. The throng of people might not have existed; they saw only each other.

“My God, Matteo,” said the king. “It’s been so long.”

No one could hear the words the men now spoke.

“Later,” said the king, freeing himself reluctantly. “As soon as this is over.”

Then Matteo went back to stand beside the children and the king with his son rode to the platform and dismounted and climbed the wooden steps — and old von Arkel, the prime minister who had served him for many years, thought that Johannes looked as he had not looked since before his wife had died.

The ceremony began. The lord mayor made a speech. The Countess Frederica scowled and speculated. Who was this bandit whom the king had embraced so publicly, and how could she make Karil behave as he should when his father so forgot himself?

Then the king stood up. He had written a short speech in Berganian, saying all the proper things. Now he tore it up. He looked once across the square, and when he spoke it was in English, but there was not a person listening who failed to catch the joy behind his words.

For Johannes was giving thanks.

He said that today had been a special day for him because a friend he had loved as a boy had returned.

“And he did not come alone,” said the king. “He came with children from all over Europe who have brought support and encouragement to our country. We are accustomed to using big words: Cooperation Between Nations, International Treaties, Political Solidarity… But cooperation begins with one thing: with friendship between ordinary people, with the love we bear one another — and with citizens who refuse to hate, or to judge.

“It has not been easy to stand firm in these hard times, but I am the most fortunate of men because I rule over people who understand this. Who are tolerant and forgiving and good .

“And because of this, we shall prevail!”

He stepped forward to the edge of the platform. “And now let us forget wars and threats and invasions, and celebrate. I declare the Bergania Folk Dance Festival open. Let the dancing begin!”

Cheers rang out over the square, and curious faces turned to look at Matteo. The band began to play again and the king made his way to the steps.

Only the people sitting close by heard anything — a short crack, nothing more. The king paused on the top step for a moment. Then he stumbled and missed his foothold. His arms came out and slowly, very slowly, almost as though time had stopped, he began to fall.

It was so strange and unexpected that no one could take in what had happened. No one except Matteo. With a few bounding steps he reached the king almost as his crumpled body came to rest on the ground.

He loosened the glittering tunic, saw the blood seeping through the fabric — and the king tried to push his hand away.

“There is… nothing to be done, Matteo. It is… over.”

“No!”

But he had seen the wound now.

The king tried to speak, and Matteo put his ear to the king’s mouth.

“Do you… remember?”

“I remember everything,” said Matteo. “Everything.”

But there was one last desperately important thing that had to be said, and with a tremendous effort the dying man forced out the words.