Send Him Victorious: Book 1 by Bart Cline
Hollings chuckled. “No. Of course not.”
“–yet.” The King waited a moment before showing his full smile.
The Prime Minister studied the King’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ve got them under control.”
“Ideally, however, it would be better to have them on side than under control.”
Hollings could not hold back a brief laugh. “Sorry. Of course I take your point, but…”
King Alfred smiled again. “I know. It’s the House of Commons. Those in it have little, in fact, in common.”
Lindsey appeared to be writing down every word spoken.
Alfred let his countenance return to normal. “Nevertheless…”
Hollings put his hand to his mouth. “Mmm.”
Bringing his hands together with a clap, the King rose from his chair. “I’m glad we had this conversation, Quincy. I’ll see you next week.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Hollings turned to go, then remembered his protocol and continued to face the King as he backed away toward the door.
“You’re welcome,” Alfred said, resuming his seat.
Lindsey, appearing at the door quickly but without hurrying, let the Prime Minister out, who turned away only when he had crossed the threshold.
“Who’s next, Blair?” Alfred slouched, almost imperceptibly.
“A delegation of ministers.” Lindsey opened the diary and turned some pages. “The Primary Schools Literacy and Numeracy Standards Committee. Basically, they want to request that you legislate a school reform bill for them.”
“How strange it seems,” the King said, focussing his gaze on a point outside the walls of his office. “I, legislate. Simply dictate a decree. Stranger still that they want me to do it, given how politicians crave power for themselves. Is it time for them now?”
Glancing at his watch, Lindsey said, “No, you still have two minutes.”
“Then go fetch me some tea. No, you do it, not the tea lady. I want that two minutes alone.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty. I’ll be back in two minutes.” Lindsey exited the room.
In his hurried solitude, the King sat down and closed his eyes. For the whole of the two minutes he did not stir except to breathe. Only the ticking of the antique clock made any sound, its pendulum marking the seconds until his next appointment arrived.
At precisely the appointed moment, Lindsey returned with three suited men who looked every inch members of Parliament, two white and one Indian, all quite young.
The King stood to meet his guests.
“Your Majesty,” Lindsey said, “Mr Akerman, Mr Croft, and Mr Patel.”
Alfred offered his hand to each of the men in turn before Lindsey motioned them to be seated. The ministers all waited for the King to sit before they dared do so themselves.
“Now, gentlemen,” Alfred said, smiling, “what can I do for you? Or is this strictly a social call?”
Mr Akerman spoke. “First of all, Your Majesty, thank you for giving us this private audience. We all know how busy you must be, you know, with all the changes, the New Order, and so on.”
“Not a bit of it. I always have time for my subjects. Would that I could grant each and every one a private audience. Now, to business.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Akerman said. “Well, as you know, the state schools of this country are… well… they are in a bad state. The literacy levels for today’s school leavers is–”
“Mr Akerman,” the King said, “do you have children?”
“Er, no, but–”
“And you, Mr Croft?” The King’s eyes were wide with interest as he questioned his ministers.
“No, Your Majesty.”
Mr Patel raised a finger. “I do!”
“Do you plan to, Mr Akerman?”
“Well, my partner and I have talked about it a few times, but–”
“Partner?” the King interrupted again. “Are you not married?”
“No. I mean– as good as.”
“Well,” Alfred said with conviction, “get married, man!”
Akerman glanced at his colleagues, and then back at the King. “Er… yes, sir.”
“Like Mr Patel,” the King said, “I do have children. Two of them – as, of course, you know. I was most pleased with their educations, but of course they attended Eton and Benenden, as I’m sure you also know. Where do your children attend school, Mr Patel?”
Patel cleared his throat. “Darrow Endowed Church of England Primary School.” His voice bore no trace of his Indian heritage, speaking instead with perfect Received Pronunciation.
“A-ha, so you chose not to send them to a private school? Why not? I expect you could afford to.” The King’s eyes widened.
“Well, my wife and I thought, in the light of my being an MP, it might seem a bit elitist.”
“Ah, an Englishman indeed, in whom is no guile.” Lindsey looked up from his note taking at the King, then resumed. Patel smiled. “Now, gentlemen, I trust you understand that education is dearly important to my plans for the New Order, and is one of my highest priorities. Tell me what you have in mind.”
The ministers explained their plan for upgrading educational standards, improving discipline, and bolstering flagging morale among teachers, while the King listened, apart from an occasional clarifying question.
“I am optimistic about this plan. It sounds as though you have done ample research, and produced a no-nonsense strategy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Akerman said.
“Indeed, many of these ideas have been in my mind for some time already, but I lack the ability to produce a bill, and as yet I sit on no committees. Is this the final bill as you envision it?”
“Yes sir.” All three ministers nodded their heads.
“Good.” Alfred took the document from Akerman’s hand, opened it to the appropriate page, and signed it. “It is now the law of the land.” He handed it back.
The ministers all looked at the document, at one another, and at the King. Then they looked again. Croft spoke first. “You mean, just like that?”
“‘Just’, as you say, ‘like that’.” The King stood up. “Now, we grow tired.” He looked at their blank expressions and smiled. “To put it another way, I have two more meetings before any chance of rest. I wish you a good day, gentlemen.”
Lindsey began to show them out. They moved as if in a trance, all of the ministers looking only at the precious bill that was now effectively law, without apparent awareness of their surroundings or hosts.
“And,” the King said, “well done.”
The ministers had crossed the threshold, and Lindsey was closing the door after them, but Patel turned to look at Alfred. “God save the King!” he said, a tear in his eye.
The other two looked back as well. “Hear, hear!” they said in unison.
Alfred acknowledged them with a nod as Lindsey closed the door.
“That went well.”
“Yes sir.”
“What next?”
“You have a meeting with a representative of British Petroleum.”
“Do we know what they wish to discuss?”
“I’m afraid not. He made some vague allusion to subsidies, but I don’t think they need any.”
“I agree,” the King said with a sigh. “Merely a social call, perhaps. Toadying up to the government, you might say.”
Lindsey nodded. “They lobbied in the old order, so I suppose they will in the New as well.”
He showed the BP director in, and proceeded to faithfully record the conversation between the two men in his notebook.
The BP man, Sir Harold McKinnon, in no uncertain terms pressed the King for preferential treatment over other oil companies. The King had been surprised at the audaciousness of the man’s request for what would have been a virtual monopoly, and refused just as brashly. Their compromise was to allow BP a certain advantage, in exchange for holding the company more accountable on various practices Alfred considered dubious. Addi
When McKinnon left, both parties found themselves equally placated and frustrated.
The King rubbed his eyes as he sunk down into his chair. “Can’t I simply nationalise BP?”
“Of course,” Lindsey said. “You’re the King. You can do whatever you wish. Can’t you?”
“Be thankful you’re not King, my friend. It’s not what everyone thinks it is – and yet it’s more as well.”
“Oh, I am thankful, sir. I mean this in the nicest possible way: I wouldn’t want your job. Especially now.”
“Yes, I can see that, from your point of view. ‘God resisteth the proud’, eh?”
“‘And giveth grace to the humble’, yes.” Lindsey chuckled. “I’m also thankful that you said it and not me.”
“Ha! And well you should be, Blair. I might have had your head for such a remark. Pray that God keeps me humble. Within reason, of course.”
“I pray for you every day, Your Majesty.”
“And so you should. ‘Fear God. Honour the king.’”
“You have a good knowledge of the Scriptures, sir.”
“For an unbeliever, you mean.”
“Mmm. But you missed out the first part of the verse: ‘Honour all men. Love the brotherhood.’ The Bible is a great leveller.”
“Indeed it is. That is why I know as much of it as I do. And as little.”
***
Sir Patrick Blackwell-MacIntyre addressed the extraordinary meeting of the Associated Society of Operational National Entities, which the nation knew as AS-ONE.
“And speaking as one who has the ear of the Palace, so to speak, the King has, intentionally or otherwise, made the British Army the de-facto police force. Our decades of faithful service are as though they never happened. The Army treat us as though our day is done, and the King implicitly backs them up by relying on the armed forces to do our jobs. General Monty seems to have the King under his thumb, and he is giving our jobs to the military. Where will it end? If Britain effectively finds itself under martial law then we are effectively up the swanee. It’s not just our jobs this time. It’s our whole way of life! It must stop!” Sir Patrick paused his invective to catch his breath. He was not as young as he used to be.
The crowd of several thousand Metropolitan Police personnel erupted into applause. Sir Patrick removed his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweaty brow. He took his jacket off, revealing sweat stains under his arms, and tossed it to one side before loosening his tie.
Holding his hands over the crowd, he motioned for silence. “How can we make the Palace see our true value? How can we get it across to the King and his cronies that we can better look after the, er, domestic tranquility than the Army can? I see only one way. Before they make one mistake too many, we must make the New Order feel it! Do you understand what I’m saying?”
There were some more cheers, some wolf-whistles, and a core of the attendees began chanting. “Strike!” Others joined in. “Strike!” The chant became louder as the crowd saw where Sir Patrick seemed to be heading. “STRIKE! STRIKE!”
Again, he motioned for silence. “Please, my friends. You misunderstand me. We are the police. We don’t go on strike!” He took a drink of water from the glass behind the lectern.
The atmosphere among the gathering became charged as some of them argued whether it was appropriate for police to strike. Many looked with puzzlement at Sir Patrick, waiting for him to continue.
“We can make them feel it,” he continued in a booming voice that demolished the din of the multitude, “in another way. As police, we have power. The public respect us, even when they don’t like us. The government depend on us, even when they sideline us. We are trained to deal with situations that the Army is not. We have valuable skills, even though the New Order is sidelining us. Now, use those advantages! Get out there and make your presence felt. Be the Police. But be more than that. We are uniquely positioned. We must also be the Militia. We must break the King’s power. We must remove him and General Monty from the Palace. We are Britain’s only hope. We must take back this country!”
Sir Patrick paused again, to a silence so profound that the world could well have ceased turning. Time itself might have been stunned. The several thousand police officers in the cavernous hall waited, nobody daring to break the hush.
Except one. An officer stood and began slowly clapping. Alone in the crowd, he raised his hands high, bringing them together in a one-man standing ovation.
Another joined him, standing, clapping, whistling his approval.
One more, then two, then a hundred. They applauded loudly enough that they might have been a thousand.
And soon they were. Support flooded from the crowd to their leader. By now only a few kept their seats.
Sir Patrick held his hand out for silence, beaming a smile of beatific light. “I trust, then, that you all understand what’s being asked of you. It is nothing less than the formation of a Militia for armed rebellion, for which any or all of us could be imprisoned or killed. It starts with us, the Police, but it will quickly grow to a popular revolt. If any of you want out, now is your chance.”
Those who had been standing now took their seats again and waited to see if any were going to back out of this new purpose.
Nervous and sweaty, one man stood up from his chair in the centre of the seating area. “I’m having trouble believing that this is really happening. Aren’t we supposed to be upholding the law?”
“Good question, Sergeant…” Sir Patrick said.
“Pailing,” the dissenter said.
“Sergeant Pailing,” Sir Patrick continued, “did you know that the original reason the police ranks were made to be out of step with army ranks was so that the police wouldn’t be considered a paramilitary force? Westminster and Whitehall foresaw this two hundred years ago. You might say we’re fulfilling our destiny. In any case, wouldn’t the police be more effective at upholding the law if we actually have a substantial stake in it?”
“But when did it become up to us how Britain was to be governed? I’ve had to enforce laws I thought were stupid before, and one or two times I’ve had to make some kind of a statement in protest. But this… you want to rule the country?” Pailing held out his hands in appeal. “That’s a bit too much of a protest! Count me out. And, by the way, I hereby resign my membership of this Association.” He made his way from his seat past his seated colleagues, most of whom glared at him with stony eyes, toward the side doors. Putting his hand on the handle of the exit door, he said, “Will anybody come with me?”
Sir Patrick sounded sympathetic. “Yes, will any of you join this one sergeant in turning against his union, against the police, and against his brothers? Who else among you doesn’t have the stomach for this undertaking? How many other cowards are there among you?”
Several more stood up and made their way to join Pailing at the fringe, making their thoughts known in short utterances as they pushed past their erstwhile colleagues: “I’ve had enough of this madness,” “You guys are the real cowards,” “I don’t have to take this from anyone,” and so on. Soon they all stood together at the exit.
“Is that it?” As the dissenters’ spokesman, Pailing scanned the crowd for any eyes that were not looking razor blades at him. He turned away and tried the door, rattling the handle as it refused to give. They were locked in.
“Now, my friends, can we let these traitors off so easily,” Sir Patrick said, pointing an accusing, trying, and judging finger at the small band of dissenters, “particularly when they’ll only go and tell someone what has transpired here? Get them away from those doors!”
The majority rose up as one and rushed Pailing and his allies. In a moment the throng bore down onto them, threatening to crush them in the press. Somehow the mob exercised enough control to extract all of the dissenters and shuffle them to the front of the room. All except Pailing.<
The pressure on the doors from the mass of bodies driving against them strained the locks to breaking point, and they sprang open.
At least fifteen dissenters fell out through the crumpled doors. Despite having been nearly crushed and smothered between the doors and the hundreds of rebel policemen – and then being kicked, elbowed, and driven to the floor by the fifteen tumbling onto him – Pailing extricated himself with a surge of adrenaline and bolted at top speed.
Those who saw him go rose from the floor and ran in pursuit.
The rest of the dissenters were now being held in front of Sir Patrick. He stepped down from the dais. “So you’re the ones who would turn on us? We’re not going to be able to show you the kind of clemency you would expect in times of peace. This is not such a time. Wait… where’s Sergeant Pailing?”
“He got out somehow,” one of Sir Patrick’s henchmen said. “Some of the men are in pursuit already.”
“Well, they’d better get him. Send more of them out to find Pailing. Dismiss the rest, and bring me a copy of tonight’s register.” Sir Patrick turned to go.
“Just a minute, sir. What do we do with these guys?”
“Chuck them in a paddy wagon. I’m going to York tomorrow to address our members there. We’ll bring these with us. I’m sure they’ll make some new friends there.”
A few minutes later, in the privacy of the Chapter Leader’s office, Sir Patrick sipped a brown liquor from a crystal tumbler. “Chester, I don’t mind telling you that was the biggest gamble of my life.”
“I can still hardly believe you pulled it off,” Chester said. “If they hadn’t responded so well, you’d be in prison right now, instead of the commander of a new Militia.”
“It’s not as random as it sounds. We’ve been preparing for this since King bloody Alfred made his move. That was something of a gamble too. He was inspirational to us, in his way.”
Chester’s mobile phone rang. He put it to his ear and listened. A glance and a shake of the head told the boss all he needed to know.
“Tell them to keep looking,” Sir Patrick said. “Pailing must be brought back.”
“Did you hear that?” Chester said into his mobile. “Get on with it then.” He ended the call.
“Still, we’re prepared. If the young Sergeant gets away from us, we’ll be ahead of him.”
***