Author's note: I'm glad you were amused by the last chapter. This one is, again, somewhat tongue-in-cheek.

Butlers, the lady-in-waiting, and the Prime Minister rushed to help the Queen to her feet and then sit her on the sofa, the one without the arrow sticking out of the cushion.

The Queen waved people away. "Stop fussing. Fetch Charles and get him to bring my father's sword. And find my herald."

Sword? Barbara stood frozen. She had just manhandled the world's favourite little old lady. Images of dungeons flashed across her mind. Hillier would kill her when he found out, but only if the Queen didn't get in first.

The large doors opened, and Prince Charles rushed in, his sword bumping against his leg in an ominous clang. He trotted to his mother and kneeled at her feet. "Your Majesty. Are you alright, Mummy?"

"Ah, yes. I'm fine. A little shaken but alive."

Charles turned and looked at Barbara. "I heard you are responsible."

Barbara swallowed hard. "Err, the arrow," she said, pointing to the barb embedded in the sofa.

Charles stood and came towards her. "You're a very brave and astute officer, Sergeant Havers."

He extended his hand. Barbara looked at it and then at the prince before shaking it. "Thank you, err…" Her mind went blank. What the hell do I call him? "Your Royal High Prince."

Charles moved his head back and tilted it slightly, then smiled. "I think a high prince sounds much better than a royal highness. That makes one sound too stuffy, don't you think?"

"Herher," Barbara uttered, trying to sound like she was laughing at his joke and not at him. Her face was beetroot red, and she wished this was all a bad dream. Then Charles tugged her hand, trying to release his hand from her grip. She instantly opened her hand. "Sorry."

The prince looked down. "You're bleeding." Blood covered the prince's hand and stained the sleeve of his uniform.

"Huh?" Barbara lifted her arm and saw that blood had soaked her jacket sleeve. "The arrow…"

Tommy was by her side in an instant. He removed his jacket, shoved the bulk of it into her armpit then wrapped the rest around her arm. "Let's not bleed on Her Majesty's best rug."

He guided her to a seat and sat her down. She felt clammy and cold but also hot. "Tommy."

"I'm here. You're fine. It's just shock."

"People with shock don't bleed," she said acidly.

The PM came over. "The Queen's physician is on his way. Just stay still, Barbara."

The doctor arrived shortly after wearing a black suit, crisp white shirt, and a black tie with tiny white crosses. "Your Majesty," he said in an equally funereal voice. "Were you hurt?"

The Queen shook her head. "See to Sergeant Havers. She took an arrow."

"An arrow?" The doctor turned and frowned when he saw the arrow protruding from the sofa cushion. "I see. A birch longbow arrow with natural goose fletching. From the Royal Company of Archers?"

"Does that matter?" Tommy asked. "Sergeant Havers needs attention."

The doctor frowned. He opened his old-fashioned doctor's bag and pulled out a few bits. "Righto. Name?"

"Havers, Barbara, Detective Sergeant, Badge number…"

"Barbara is fine." He flashed a light into her eyes. "Just a bit of shock. Now, let's look at this wound."

Tommy helped him remove Barbara's jacket while Simon, the Queen, Prince Charles, and the butlers leant forward to watch. Barbara felt like the prize pig about to be slaughtered for the feast.

"Perhaps the doctor needs to remove my shirt," she whispered to Tommy. "Do we need an audience?"

"How do I ask the Queen to leave her own drawing room?" he hissed back, sympathetically but with a tinge of helplessness.

The doctor felt around her armpit, making her wince. He then turned to the Queen. "Ma'am, is there a room we can move Sergeant Havers to? I think she'll need stitches."

The Queen waved her hand. A butler appeared at her side, and she gave instructions. "Come on, everyone, let's leave the doctor to tend to his patient. When you're finished, please escort Barbara to the Throne Room."

Tommy stayed while the doctor examined Barbara's wound. "It's superficial, but it's nicked an artery in your armpit. I think I can glue it. That's a lot less painful than stitches."

Barbara nodded. Anything so she could get home.

Her shirt was too badly bloodstained and torn to wear, so Tommy asked the butler outside the door to dispose of it. He had helped her into her jacket and done it up. The sleeve was wet where the butler had rinsed out the blood. She looked a mess but presentable, all things considered.

"Come on, let's bid our farewells and get you home."

Barbara stopped at the door and stared. The Throne Room was furnished in bordello red trimmed with cream and gold. The walls weren't painted and looked like silk. Matching heavy velvet drapes trimmed with gold hung from the lavish golden pelmet. The ceiling was magnificent. It was at least 10 metres high and adorned with crests and gold honeycombing. Five huge glass and gold chandeliers hung low into the room, giving off a warm glow in contrast to the bright light pouring in through the enormous windows. At the end of the room, under a canopy that matched the walls, sat two uncomfortable-looking stiff Baroque chairs with worn and slightly tatty red velvet that Barbara thought looked like rejects from that musty old antique shop near the Met.

"Are they the thrones?" she asked Tommy. "You'd think Britain could afford something more… regal."

"Ah, come in," the PM called, beckoning them to join the group seated near one of the windows. Tommy and Barbara sat in the two vacant chairs.

"All patched up?" The Queen asked. A man in a morning suit was beside the Queen, holding up a thick, red leather-bound book.

"Yes, thank you, Ma'am. I… feel a bit foolish."

The Queen frowned. "Don't be. Where were you born?"

"Umm, Acton. In London."

The Queen nodded.

"London?" she asked the man beside her.

"That would be a new creation, Ma'am. It would have to be recommended by Parliament."

"I'm still the sovereign. Surely, I can have some say?"

The PM nodded. "Yes, Ma'am. I can pass that easily through the House next week."

"That's settled then. Extinct upon death."

Extinct upon death? They were going to execute her. Barbara looked at Tommy, who seemed to be completely at ease. Surely, he should be objecting, arguing her case. "What's going on," she whispered, "can't you stop them?"

"Why? If it is what I think, it's very unusual."

"Because I don't want to do an Anne Boleyn."

Tommy just stared at her as if she had started raving about the King of Spain's teeth. He was no help whatsoever.

The Queen held up her hands, and the room fell silent. "Charles, pass me the sword."

Barbara grabbed Tommy's hand. "No, please. Send me to the Tower if you must, but… I don't deserve the sword."

Everyone in the room stared at her. Tommy. Prince Charles, the PM and even young Simon. Then the Queen laughed. Soon everyone laughed, which made the Queen laugh more. "Oh, Sergeant Havers, no one is going to behead you."

Barbara felt stupid. She had made an idiot of herself in front of royalty. In front of Tommy. He was still laughing, but when he saw her face, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, Barbara. I didn't realise you thought you were in trouble."

"No, my dear, far from it," the Queen said. "I think you missed the conversation when shock set in. I'm sorry to have frightened you. In light of the extraordinary events this afternoon, I have decided to create a new marquessate, the Marquess of London, which will not be hereditary. I have also decided that we don't want this afternoon's unfortunate event publicised, so rather than award a bar to your George Medal, I am going to knight you."

"Knight me?"

"Yes," The Queen stood. "Come here. I've done this hundreds of times. I promise I won't slip."

Barbara stood and walked towards the Queen, who made a gesture indicating that Barbara should kneel. She bent on one knee. The Queen smiled as she touched her on each shoulder. "Arise Dame Barbara, Marchioness of London."

Polite applause broke out. Barbara stood but could not process it all. "Thank you, Ma'am. What's a March on Ess?"

The Queen sent them home in one of her household vehicles. Barbara was clutching the red velvet box that held her Knight of the British Empire garland. When the car stopped, the driver leapt out and ran around the car to open the door for her. "Lady London, Lord Asherton."

Barbara followed Tommy into the house. "Denton," Tommy called, "we've had an eventful day."

Tommy sent Barbara up to have a long bath. When she came down, he and Charlie were sitting in the informal lounge off the kitchen, sipping whisky.

"Feel better?" Charlie asked.

"No. Oh, Charlie, I made a complete fool of myself. I didn't know what a marchioness was, and the Queen was a little flabbergasted."

"So, M'lady, how does it feel to outrank M'lord?"

"Outrank him? Huh?"

Charlie stood and found a book on the shelf above the television. "Here, this is a picture of the British peerage. Other than royalty, you have dukes and duchesses at the top, then marquesses and marchionesses, then earls and countesses."

Barbara looked at the picture, then at Tommy, then at Charlie and back to Tommy. "You're serious? I outrank you?'

"Yes," Tommy said, "you do, M'lady."

Barbara sank back against the back of the sofa. "So, I'm what?"

"The Marchioness of London, DBE. Which in practice becomes Lady London, like I'm the Eighth Earl of Asherton, but known as Lord Asherton."

"A lord sounds higher than a lady."

"It's an anachronism. All female peers are ladies."

"This one isn't," she protested. "What's she done to me? I'm one of your lot?"

Tommy nodded. "Yes, you are. And you'll still outrank me when we're married."

Barbara ran her hand through her hair. "One shock per day. Ask me that one tomorrow."

Tommy and Charlie exchanged broad grins. "I will. I trust the answer will be yes."

Barbara nodded. Almost absent-mindedly. "Well, it could have been worse. At least I didn't drink from the spout of her teapot."

I hope you enjoyed this little romp. I wanted to highlight the humour and grace of the late Queen. I hope she would have been amused. Vale QEII.

This fulfils my promise of 4 stories for Nat's fundraising. Mind you with 11 chapters in this one, you got a pretty good deal. I'll be back, but it might be a while. Take care.