Joan Lumb, since Acorn was occupied with Bella Morthampton and Ivor, herself showed the General to the Charlemagne Suite. The suite was named after the Emperor-General who did so much, during his reign from AD 771 to 814, to bring grace and style back to warfare after the fall of the Roman Empire. Battles had degenerated alarmingly since the days of Tiglath-Pileser and Alexander and, after them, the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome. Battles were no longer informed by tactics, as they had been in that ancient world. Now there was nothing but a disorderly alignment of opposing warriors, all shoving and pushing, in roughly parallel orders of battle, followed by dull, uninspired butchery (sic. I quote a military historian: it is their habit to make this kind of distinction, between inspired death-dealing and uninspired butchery) until one side or the other fled. There was no leadership; no ingenuity, sophistication or discipline on the battlefield at all. Perfectly dreadful, military historians agree! Then, as if in answer to the challenge of the times, Charlemagne emerged. He it was who brought ritual back into battle, and discipline, oh, such discipline! Charlemagne established ranks amongst his troops and efficient lines of command: he developed the arts of foraging so that his armies could go farther and yet farther afield – now they could venture a thousand miles from home or more. Whole nations might go hungry, there might not be seed for next year’s harvest, but the troops would be fed and the battle be won! And there were always such lots of troops. Charlemagne’s nobles had to provide them, or lose their lands. So the peasantry lost its freedom, the feudalising process was hastened, and a good supply of soldiery insured for centuries to come. Good on you, Charlemagne! Good on you, cobber!
The suite of course was charming, and done in rococo style which enchanted the General. In the bedroom, however, was a large double bed hung with heavy tapestries, which he hoped was dust free. He had suffered from asthma in his youth, and although now free of the disease, had an automatic fear and suspicion of dust. He had a terrible vision of Bella bouncing naked on the bed, and with each bounce a cloud of dust arising, and himself wheezing and huffing. He need not have worried: the bed was well aired and the hangings and blankets properly shaken, but adulterers make over-anxious, guilty lovers, quite ridiculously nervous of possible catastrophe. And although the General was not consciously guilty, knowing quite well that all through history the brave have deserved the fair, and by definition a general is a brave man, he was, all the same, married. ‘I’m sure I’ll be most comfortable here,’ said the General, bravely. ‘A really enchanting room! And what an interesting bed.’
‘A bed with a history,’ said Joan Lumb. ‘It’s called the Charlemagne bed. The Queen’s sister once slept in it.’ These things do not go forgotten.