The Oxford Set
Ambrose Perceville, 40th Earl of Waering, walked towards the foot of the tallest tower of his imposing Medieval castle and opened the door.
In front of him was a spiral staircase, seemingly leading to nowhere.
He stepped inside and closed the door.
Ambrose was used to the climb. He did it when he needed a time of quiet contemplation away from his overbearing wife.
Every so often, he’d look out through the arrow slits towards the unassuming town of Waering.
He used to believe that this was his domain. One that he lorded over as a de facto king.
Now, he felt like an outsider, all thanks to the blasted General Election.
His beloved Conservative and Unionist Party of Great Britain, a party he loyally served for most of his adult life as an MP during the Thatcher Administration and more recently as a member of the House of Lords after inheriting the Earldom of Waering, had faced a catastrophic defeat at the hands of the Labour Party.
Now, only a measly one-hundred-and-twenty-five MPs remained.
Ambrose’s only consolation was that his twenty-seven-year-old son, Harold, was one of them.
He promised Harold they would have a meal if he kept his seat. Still, in light of how the party fared nationally, they were going to the local Pizza Express instead of the five-star celebrity restaurant that Harold initially wanted to go to.
Eventually, a bright light shone on Ambrose’s face. Squinting, he walked into it.
He had reached the top of the tower, overlooking the Labour stronghold he was stranded in.
He walked over to the tower’s edge and clung to the railings.
His period of Shakespearean brooding was interrupted by a cold, deep voice.
“A darker time this family has never faced.”
Ambrose turned to his right.
In front of him was a large, shaggy dog as black as night.
It was Guido Perceville, 10th Earl of Waering and Ambrose’s 31st x great-grandfather.
Known as the Black Dog of Waering when he was alive, he was doomed to stalk the castle walls for all eternity as a literal black dog.
“This wouldn’t have happened if Harold was party leader,” Ambrose said, unperturbed by the presence of his ancestor.
“Then make him try again,” the dog said. “Another opportunity has arisen. Now is his chance.”
“I’m not sure whether he wants to,” Ambrose said. “He’s still mortified by his swift rejection the last time around.”
Harold took part in the previous Leadership Race but fell at the first hurdle as the other party members didn’t think anyone would take a twelve-year-old Prime Minister seriously.
Harold wasn’t twelve, but he looked significantly younger than he was due to the phenomenon of people born after 1997 looking like slightly mature teenagers.
“The party would be insane to make the same mistake twice,” the dog said. “Only a fool wouldn’t see that Harold Perceville is the Tories’ greatest weapon.”
Ambrose paused for a moment.
“Why do you care so much?” Ambrose said. “Parliament wasn’t even a thing in the 14th century.”
The dog started barking viciously and appeared to lunge at Ambrose.
The Earl managed to move out of the way just in time.
The dog stood on his hind legs, barking at something down below.
Eventually, the dog calmed down and slowly backed away.
“What on earth was that about?” Ambrose said.
“I saw a Squirrel,” the dog said.
“Oh, very well,” Ambrose said, composing himself.
Guido slowly padded up and down the battlements in front of Ambrose.
“Harold being Leader of the Opposition will solve all our problems,” he said. “Younger voters will flock to him and his American wife in droves. Liberalism will soon be a thing of the past.”
“The plan was always for him to become Prime Minister anyway,” Ambrose said.
“Exactly, so you know what to do,” Guido said.
“I’ll have a word with him,” Ambrose said. “Once he’s recovered from the election.”
“You will benefit personally and the country,” Guido said. “You will have more power and influence with your son in Downing Street.”
The dog stopped strolling, and Ambrose started to pace.
“That’s another thing. Would the British public want a so-called “nepo baby” in charge?” Ambrose asked.
“I don’t see that being a problem,” the dog said. “The King is a nepotism baby himself.”
“Not everyone is fond of the monarchy,” Ambrose said. “Even then, it’s a different situation entirely.”
The dog stared blankly at Ambrose before walking away.
“No more excuses,” the dog said. “Get the boy to enter the Leadership Race. Only then will you walk out from the clouds and into the light.”
Within seconds, the dog was gone, and Ambrose was alone.
He walked down the staircase and returned to the relative cosiness of the State Rooms.
A few days later, Ambrose’s son Harold and his wife Thelma visited Waering Castle for the weekend.
They discussed the possibility of Harold taking over the Conservative Party.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Thelma said. “We’re fed up with these old people being in charge; it’s time for someone young.”
Harold stared at the wine in his glass before taking a sip.
”It is still my greatest ambition to become Prime Minister of this country before I become custodian of this castle,” Harold said.
“Then that settles it,” Thelma said. “Announce your intention.”
Harold stared at the clock.
”So be it,” Harold said. “I will officially throw my hat into the ring this afternoon.”
Ambrose clapped his hands.
“Excellent,” he said. “I can feel a weight come off my shoulders already.”
Suddenly, a steward entered the room. Her face was pale, and she seemed to be shaking.
“Lord Waering,” the Steward said.
“Yes, what is it?” Ambrose said. “Spit it out, girl.”
”I have a message,” the Steward said. “A message for Harold.”
Harold shot up and walked over to the Steward.
“What message is this?”
”There’s someone outside waiting for you,” the Steward said. “You must go to them this once.”
Thelma, Ambrose, and Harold looked at each other for a moment.
”Why would someone come to the castle to talk to me?” Harold said. “My constituents know to contact me when I’m at Perceville Hall.”
”I don’t know the reasoning for their visit, Lord Brooke,” the Steward said. “They just told me four words.”
”What words?” Harold said.
”It’s time for walkies.”
The Robinsonverse 