Send Him Victorious: Book 1

Send Him Victorious

  Book 1

  Copyright 2016 by Bart Cline

  bartcline.me

  Contents

  1 - Overthrow

  2 - Risk

  3 - Rule

  4 - Defiance

  5 - Strike

  6 - Strife

  7 - Setback

  1 - Overthrow

  Four Army transport trucks rolled into the New Palace Yard, a fenced open area at the corner of Westminster Palace in the shadow of Big Ben. Moving onto the oval-shaped drive the vehicles formed a semi-circle, blocking access to the ramp leading to the underground parking for the Lords and Ministers of Parliament.

  A General and a Sergeant were already on the ground. The Sergeant barked orders to his men who poured out of the trucks, their weapons rattling as they moved. The General entered the Houses of Parliament through a side door. The Sergeant followed, leading scores of soldiers from the yard into the buildings. Another officer and several lower ranks stayed behind to keep guard, watching the rest enter the hallowed halls of the British Parliament behind their commanding officers.

  The remaining guards closed the gates, walking a circuit around the Yard, passing the guards’ hut where two uniformed guards sat trussed with cable ties.

  The flow of people, some going about their business, some tourists, passed by the gates. Noticing the activity, a small crowd was gathering.

  ***

  An attractive middle-aged woman clad in a silk kimono dressing gown and satin pyjamas, her brown hair cascading over her shoulders, sat in an armchair. The decor was sumptuous with thick curtains, flocked wallpaper, classical paintings, and antique furniture. A television showed the State Opening of Parliament in which Alfred, the reigning King of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, wearing the Imperial State Crown on his head and his state robe over his naval uniform, took his seat on the throne.

  A butler entered bringing her continental breakfast on a polished brass tray.

  “Thank you, Bernard,” she said in the clipped accents of Received Pronunciation. “That’s all for now.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” Bernard went through the door, attempting to close it after him, but a man got in his way.

  “Good morning sir,” Bernard said. He finished shutting the door behind him as the other man entered.

  Of a greater age than the woman, wearing a towelling dressing gown with no visible clothing underneath, he stood between her and the television. “Good morning sister. Only just having breakfast? Isn’t 11:30 a bit late for you?” He rubbed his eyes, yawning, and pushed his hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Good morning Adrian. I don’t have any engagements today so I allowed myself a lie-in. What’s your excuse?”

  Adrian caught her blue eyes. “I had an engagement last night.” He grinned, and winked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t even know you’d slept here until Bernard mentioned he’d seen you.”

  “Well, you know, your house was the nearest place. Though ‘last night’ might be stretching it since I only got here at four. And what are you watching?” He turned to the television, shifting his weight and putting his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m trying,” she said, leaning to see past her brother, “to watch Father open parliament.”

  “Oh, is that what day it is? Really, Frances, I don’t know why you bother. What pleasure does it give you to listen to Father read the government’s vacuous drivel every year? I think it’s embarrassing.”

  She motioned him out of the way as she buttered her toast. “It’s one of the few times I get to see Father, so just let me watch in peace.”

  “Don’t be so silly.” Adrian picked up her Delft teapot, pouring himself a cup and replacing the pot on the tray. “You see him every day.” He indicated the picture of the King on the mantelpiece and took a sip of tea. He smacked his lips as if tasting wine. “It’s missing something.”

  “Milk?” The Princess proffered a small jug.

  “No,” the Prince said, “it’s something else. Ah-ha!” He produced a hip flask from a pocket and poured a little into his tea. “Jack Daniel’s. I call this ‘Texas tea’.” He sipped it and smiled.

  “That’s very like you, Adrian,” the Princess said. “Jack Daniel’s is made in Tennessee.”

  “Tennessee tea then.” Prince Adrian sat down on the two-seater. They continued watching the pageantry on the television.

  ***

  “My lords and members of the House of Commons,” King Alfred sighed, reading from a page in his hand, “my government’s plans for the coming parliamentary year are broad in scope and ambitious in content. My government will seek to build upon its existing programs, strengthening the police force to counter an ever-increasing terrorist threat, to root out injustice and prejudice in the Armed Forces, to build upon our economic strength through increased encouragement to the private sector, and to ensure a safe, competitive society.”

  The King’s tone was uninflected as he spoke to the gathering in the House of Lords, amplified by a public address system. The lights shone down upon him, almost drowning his view of the assembled gathering so that the meagre television audience would get a good picture. The opulent trappings near the ceiling of the Chamber – the paintings, the wrought metal, the carved stone – were to him all but invisible behind the incandescent glare.

  His thick silver hair showed below the fringe of the bejewelled golden crown which framed his kindly but authoritative face, handsome with a dominant nose, intent eyes, solid cheekbones – advanced in years but not decrepit, a striking and regal figure, even seated.

  “My government will strengthen relationships with our friends in the Commonwealth, the European Union, and the G20, to ensure environmental and economic sustainability while maintaining Britain’s distinctive characteristics in our increasingly globalised society.

  “My government will bring forward its plan to tackle cyber–terrorism and other threats within the online community, while encouraging the free interchange that makes the Internet so important to our lives today.

  “I look forward to our state visit to Tanzania, as well as receiving the Tanzanian President as a guest of my government later this year.

  “My government will continue to press forward its programme of ameliorating Great Britain’s contribution to climate change, seeking the cooperation of America, Russia, and China in lowering carbon emissions.”

  A brief shudder took hold of the King.

  He looked up and scanned the room, locking eyes with a few of the people that he recognised. He looked at the speech again. A murmur went through the Lords’ Chamber while the King took this unscripted pause. The lords, the journalists, the ambassadors, the Yeoman Warders, even the pageboys, wondered at their ageing King.

  King Alfred took a deep breath, straining his buttons. “I–” His voice cracked. “I really don’t know who writes this interminable nonsense. The Prime Minister? No Quincy, I’ve seen your writing, and it isn’t this good.”

  Coughs, clearing of throats, a multitude of hushed voices filled the air.

  Lord Speaker Baroness Overhill shouted for order. Lacking amplification her voice was lost in the din.

  “My lords and ladies,” the King said with authority beyond the amplification of the loudspeakers positioned around the Chamber, “did you really come here to listen to the government’s vapid claptrap? Do your expectations and aspirations go no further than seeing policies enacted, bills signed, and the business of government rattling on, imposing its increasingly out-of-step will upon an increasingly compliant people?” He stood, six feet four inches plus the height of the dais, dominating all in the Chamber and silencing even those in the gallery.<
br />
  “You’ve listened very patiently to this more or less recycled speech every year. You’ve heard the government’s program.” He drew a deep breath. “Now hear mine.

  “This nation needs a King. Not a figurehead. Nor a head of state who does Parliament’s bidding. Nor someone who merely opens bridges and hospitals, visit schools, goes on state visits and feathers his own nest, hiding away in stately palaces while letting government and opposition debate their meagre accomplishments – which for too long is exactly what I have done.

  “This country needs a King. A sovereign. A rightful ruler. From henceforth that is what I shall be.” The King’s expensively capped teeth gleamed under the powerful lights as he held the government’s speech, tore it in half, and threw it in the air. The pieces fluttered down.

  “From this moment, my so-called ‘government’ will not govern. It will represent. Your ministers of parliament will represent you to me.” The King looked directly into a television camera. “I will govern. I will rule.”

  The lords, ladies, almost everyone, stood to their feet, shouting, cursing, vilifying the King, defying parliamentary procedure.

  ***

  Princess Frances dropped a slice of toast on her Delft plate and forgot to chew the bite in her mouth until she nearly choked.

  The Prince dropped his cup and saucer. It shattered.

  Watching as the King spoke on screen, the Princess put a hand to her mouth. A tear fell from her eye.

  Adrian sighed. “The old man has finally gone to be with the fairies. The Palace physicians will have to section him for certain.”

  The Princess glared. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”

  “You heard him,” the Prince said. “He’s gone completely potty!”

  ***

  A young man dressed in camouflage fatigues and a pair of slippers sat on the second-hand sofa nursing a mug of coffee, an older woman next to him, watching King Alfred on television.

  The woman sported a chunky dressing gown with a hole in the shoulder where the seam came apart.

  The lounge was roomy with little decoration, and in need of new wallpaper.

  “Can’t we change the channel, Jimmy?” his Mum said.

  “No Mum, that’s ’is Majesty.” Jimmy gave the TV a little salute and smiled at his Mum.

  “Oh, you,” Jimmy’s mother said. “Why you wanna watch ’is Majesty anyway?”

  “I’m a soldier in ’is Army. ’E’s me King. Why wouldn’ I wanna watch ’im?”

  Jimmy’s mother snuggled next to him and sipped her drink.

  “Won’t ya at least stay ’til Dad gets ’ome from work? ’E’ll wanna say g’bye t’ya.”

  “Can’t. I’ve gotta be on post at sixteen-hundred hours. Besides, I said goodbye t’Dad this morning before ’e went t’work. Now, stop botherin’ me. There’s some kind o’ big fuss goin’ on with the King’s speech.”

  “Why? What’s ’e doin’?”

  In a lower voice, Jimmy said, “’E’s bein’ the King, that’s what!”

  ***

  The King raised his hands and shouted, the powerful amplifier making his voice heard over the commotion. “Listen to me! Where is your respect for your sovereign?” He smiled subtly as the assembled crowd continued caterwauling.

  The King bellowed in a commanding voice. “I will have silence!” After a moment the shouts subsided. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. This is not a debate. This is a New Order.”

  The murmur resumed, less noisily.

  The Archbishop of Canterbury wore a beatific frown. He was a severe but handsome man with wavy ashen hair, slim, his face lined and clean-shaven. The other bishops conformed more to the stereotype of overfed former public schoolboys.

  The Archbishop looked hard at Alfred. He spoke to the Bishop next to him. “Someone must stop the King.”

  The other man leaned close to him. “Yes, but there’s nothing he can actually do other than talk. That’s the beauty of our constitutional monarchy, isn’t it? He is king in name only. Powerless. Emasculated.”

  “Nevertheless, he needs to be raked over the coals for this. The decorum of this house is sacrosanct, and he has violated it.”

  “I suppose so, Your Grace,” the other Bishop said.

  The Lord Speaker had found a microphone, which she tapped several times. “Lords, ladies, honoured guests, we must have order!” She looked around as she waited for silence. “Your Majesty, I’m sure none of us understand what has moved you to make your extraordinary statements, but I would respectfully remind you that this session is being broadcast live on television and online. Furthermore, the news services must surely have generated considerable extra interest based on your… rather unusual speech. Perhaps that is what you wanted, but neither the House of Lords nor the Commons can accept any further–”

  “I think I’ve made my intentions clear enough,” the King said. “You need only to–”

  “Your Majesty, I’m sorry but if you will not stand down then you will be removed.” The Baroness looked toward the door at the far end where a pair of policeman stood.

  “How dare you,” Alfred bellowed, “speak over your sovereign, and threaten your King. This is my parliament. I cannot be removed from it.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty. I sincerely regret what you force me to do.” Baroness Overhill pointed at the constables, clicking her fingers and gesturing.

  Impeded by the crowd, the constables moved slowly along the length of the Chamber. The King gasped with mock fear, looking exaggeratedly frightened without trying to be convincing. He held his hands out toward the constables, wrists together, face sullen.

  The constables stood at the King’s feet. They looked from one another to the King, to Overhill, and back again, sweating.

  “Well?” the King said.

  “Er… Your Majesty, would you please…”

  “Remove your hats in the presence of your King.”

  They quickly complied, their gazes flicking from place to place. “Sorry, sir, but we have to escort you out. Would you please come with us?”

  The King smiled and gently clapped. “Oh, vey good, my boy. Truly intimidating.” He towered over the constables. That they were intimidated by him was clear to all.

  A new commotion was developing among the members of the House of Commons who were crowded into the far end of the Chamber, toward which all eyes now directed themselves.

  Standing in the doorway was a British Army General in field uniform. His dark hair was neatly cut and combed with a side parting, a trim moustache atop his thin-lipped mouth. The military baton he held in his left hand was complemented by a holstered sidearm.

  The General’s men stood behind him, their assault rifles ready.

  “Ah, Stewart.” The King looked at the General.

  “Your Majesty,” the General said, saluting with a flourish. His men followed suit.

  “Lords and ladies, gentlemen,” the King said, “I’m sure many of you know my good friend General Sir Stewart Montgomery. Stewart, I’m having a spot of bother with these two young constables. Remove them.”

  “With pleasure, Your Majesty.”

  Montgomery turned his head. One of his men said, “Sir!” The young soldier made his way toward the constables, the lords and ladies leaning out of his way under the threat of the weapon he carried.

  The unarmed policemen moved away. The soldier cocked his thumb toward the exit. “Come on constables,” he said without making eye contact with the King. “Sorry about these two, Your Majesty.” He escorted the bobbies, moving backward from the King’s immediate presence.

  “Kindly remove the Commons as well,” the King said, looking at the General. “They can observe the remainder of these proceedings on the monitors.”

  “Your Majesty.” The General turned and indicated the exit with his baton. His men parted to allow the commons to pass. “Gentlemen, ladies, kindly return to the House of Commons.”

  The King cleared his throat. “Lords, ladies,” he said, s
canning those seated on the benches, “British subjects, and citizens of the world,” now looking at the television cameras. “Until three centuries ago my ancestors ruled this nation under what it pleased them to refer to as the divine right of kings. They made decrees, they ordered building projects, they declared war, they established religion, they practiced diplomacy. All without the need to consult Parliament. All without reference to political correctness. Without worrying about votes. Without concern for public image. They imposed their rule, and it was understood far and wide that the King’s word was law.

  “Yes, there were bad kings who abused their power. There were those who fought wars to glorify themselves. There were those who stabbed one another in the back to gain more power.

  “But there were also those who did well by their subjects. My namesake, Alfred the Great, championed education, kindness, the individual’s right to property, freedom, and fairness. Queen Elizabeth considered the poor and needy, and was so concerned to rule well that she determined never to marry, thinking it an obstacle to good judgement and a temptation to betrayal. King James safeguarded the translation of the Bible into the common tongue, against the threat of the Catholic nations who collectively believed the great project to be the Devil’s work.

  “Consider what has been lost by the transfer of power from the crown to parliament. It takes an age for government building projects to be approved and funded. Politicians are hamstrung by their lust for power and pursuit of votes. If a thing is determined to be politically incorrect, it cannot be done, even if all previous generations found that same thing to be of enormous value.

  “It was once the case that every nation aspired to be like us. Even the French looked at Britain with envy. But what has happened? The modern age has reduced Britain to a mere shadow of her former self. Our biggest exports today are actors and second-rate pop-stars. Britain is scarcely recognisable as Great Britain. She is no longer great.”

  ***

  “This cannot be happening,” the Prince of Wales said, rising from the sofa and walking around the room. “Couldn’t he just have left well alone? What was so wrong with the status quo?” He patted his pockets and drew out a pack of cigarettes.

  “You will not smoke in my home,” the Princess said.

  Adrian extracted a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket. “This isn’t what I was raised for. I was just supposed to wave to the people. Open bridges and hospitals, attend premieres. Those things I can handle.”