shadow of britain

Chapter 749 God Bless Victoria
The applause in the church had not yet died down, but Victoria had already slowly stood up.

When she just stood up, there was still some nervousness on her face, but after taking a few steps, her complexion returned to normal.

She did not look up at the altar, nor did she turn back to signal, but walked straight towards the pulpit in front with an unusual calmness.

Not standing behind the pulpit, where priests and politicians often stand, but in front of it, she chose a place where neither priests nor powerful people stand.

In the shadow of the cross, she looked around.

The police officers stood straight with solemn faces, without showing any emotion. However, from the eager eyes of these tough guys, it can be seen that they have high hopes for the future Queen of England.

The citizens' discussions gradually died down, and everyone's eyes were fixed on Her Royal Highness the Princess, whose name often appeared in newspaper headlines.

Although many residents of Wales and southern England got to see the prince of Wales during her tour of the country last summer, for many Londoners this was the first time they had seen what the Kensington-based princess looked like.

Her face was round like a girl, but her facial features had already revealed a clear and calm outline. Under her slightly high nose bridge was a pair of soft lips, as if once closed, she would refuse all pretense. Her eyes were large, like her mother's, but with an unexpected solemnity, like a lake that had not yet thawed, crystal clear, but also hidden.

Victoria stood still, raised her head slightly, and her eyes swept lightly over the square of police officers, then over the wooden benches in the church and the shadows of the pillars on both sides of the altar, and finally stopped in the shadow of a stone pillar on the right.

There stood a man, wearing a well-tailored black morning coat, without any military ornaments or medals. He only had a pair of white gloves on his left arm, and his right hand hung at his side, quietly holding the black long-handled umbrella, a Fox brand, as usual.

Sir Arthur Hastings.

The event planner did not stand in the front row of the crowd, nor was he near the royal guest seats. Instead, he stood under the outermost arcade of the church with reporters, police officers and some late-arriving gentlemen, deliberately avoiding the light, as if he was deliberately staying there.

Arthur made no unnecessary movements and showed no exaggerated expressions.

He just nodded slightly as he usually did in class.

Not an order, not an encouragement, not a compliment, but a very familiar confirmation: you can go on because you are ready.

Victoria's eyes moved slightly, and her whole temperament seemed to have changed in an instant, as if there were no audience members in the audience, as if she was back in the classroom in the Rose Room of Kensington Palace.

She took a deep breath and spoke.

"Please allow me to say a few words as well."

She did not reveal her identity, nor did she label herself as "I am the Crown Prince". She just stated the facts in the most plain tone: "I don't know if I am qualified to stand here, because I am neither a minister, nor a writer, nor a king. I am not qualified to define a hero. As a child, as a girl, I don't understand the full meaning of honor, responsibility or sacrifice. I don't even know Officer Cali. I have never spoken to him and have never met him in the garden. But I know..."

She didn't raise her voice, and the first syllable she uttered had a slight tremor that was unique to young girls: "He died to protect us."

Her voice still echoed in the church, but there was a subtle change in the crowd.

Among the police officers standing by the aisle, some lowered their heads to look at their arms wrapped in black satin armbands, their knuckles tense and white. Others looked at the Carley family standing alone by the flower bed, with light in their eyes, but they refused to let it slip out of their eyes easily.

Those citizens sitting in the back row were just there to watch the fun, and some even muttered, "What can the princess say?" But at this moment, they all straightened their backs. Some men took off their hats and pressed them against their chests, and some old women quietly pulled out handkerchiefs from under their cloaks and wiped their eyes silently.

Victoria paused slightly, as if to confirm whether her voice really reached every corner of the church, and then continued speaking.

"I know he didn't sacrifice himself for me personally. But what I want to say is that if a person is willing to stand up in the face of danger, for people he doesn't know, for a city where he was not born, and for some families for whom he will never be thanked, then I think he deserves to be called a hero. A true hero doesn't need others to erect statues for him, nor does he need others to sing his praises. He just stands there, without shouting slogans or asking for anything in return. He may be afraid, but he doesn't leave where he should be."

She took a deep breath. Perhaps because she had said too many words in one breath, Victoria, who had no experience in public speaking, had a tense voice. But she did not stop: "I, I am scared too."

This sudden confession suddenly changed the atmosphere in the church. Not only because of surprise, but also because this sentence was too frank, so it didn't seem to come from the mouths of those royal family members who often boasted to the public that they were brave and responsible.

"The day before yesterday, when I stood at Kensington Palace and watched the flames of Westminster Palace rise into the night sky, I was really scared. I stood by the window, watching those familiar towers collapse bit by bit, watching the flames wrap around the golden cross on the roof, watching the bells that never spoke, also silent as if they were burned."

These words were so powerful that even the Fleet Street reporters standing in the back row, who were used to all kinds of fancy words, couldn't help but raise their heads.

Further ahead, Mrs. Leitzen's eyes were slightly red, and she gently made the sign of a cross on her chest, as if praying for the child she had raised.

The Duchess of Kent lowered her eyes, and her hand, which had been holding the glove, finally loosened slightly.

She had read Victoria's speech and even wondered if it was too plain. If it had not been revised by Sir Arthur Hastings and Alfred Tennyson, she would have even planned to have Conroy redraft it.

But now it seems that the on-site effect of this speech was unexpectedly good.

"That night, I saw my mother sitting in front of the fireplace in silence in the firelight. Her shadow fell on the wall, stretched very long by the firelight. I asked her: Will even the strongest house be burned down? She didn't answer, but just hugged me tightly."

Victoria raised her head: "The fire was over, but the fear in my heart was not over. The next day, I followed Sir Arthur Hastings to see the fire scene of Westminster Palace. The stones seemed to have cried dry tears, the wooden beams were burned into empty shells, and the smell of burning at night remained in the air. But what was more uncomfortable than all this was that I saw the Scotland Yard officers standing at the edge of the ruins. They were busy all night, their faces were covered with dust, and their eyes were full of fatigue, but they were still at the scene. No one ordered them to do this, they just stayed, just like Officer Robert Carley. I heard from Sir Arthur that the Scotland Yard team was the first to arrive at the fire scene that night. Some people were burned, some fainted, and some were hit by falling rocks and are now lying in the hospital. At the edge of the ruins of Westminster, I saw an injured police officer lying on a stretcher with his eyes open. He saw me and said nothing, but just raised his hand, as if saluting, and as if comforting me. The doctor next to me asked me not to get close, saying that he was not fully awake yet. But I thought to myself that he was more awake than all of us.

I didn't say anything at that time. It's not that I didn't want to say anything, but I didn't know what to say. My hands tightly grasped the hem of my skirt, and there was only one thought in my mind: If it were me, would I be so brave? As brave and dedicated as Officer Robert Calley and this officer? I was afraid that I was not strong enough, not firm enough, and not worthy of standing among them. We are all imperfect, and I am even more imperfect. "

Hearing this, many police officers who had originally straightened their backs suddenly felt tears in their eyes, and the eyes of the citizens looking at the princess also changed from initial surprise and admiration to gentleness.

Even the senior police officers sitting in the front row, who were wearing various scars, slowly raised their hands and took off their hats.

They originally didn't believe that the little girl from the royal family could say anything convincing, but at this moment, they felt that Princess Victoria's speech was much more honest than the eulogies given by politicians, bishops and nobles at the funeral.

At this point, Victoria suddenly turned to Mrs. Carleigh and her two children: "I will not pretend to know your pain, nor do I dare to say that I understand the feeling of loss. I don't understand politics, and I don't know whether these decisions are correct. But I know that in the past few years, I have seen many adults arguing, MPs are angry, nobles are debating, and ordinary people... They just watched the fire in Westminster Palace silently, just like we watched the rain fall today."

Victoria did not criticize, she just expressed her anxiety from her own perspective: "I heard them say the word power, and I also heard them say reform, loss of control, replacement, and necessity. But no one said they were afraid. No one said: they were also afraid, afraid that the next fire would not be in Westminster, afraid that Officer Robert Culley who fell would not be the last. I'm just a fifteen-year-old girl. To be honest, there are many things I don't understand. I don't understand why the country sometimes chooses to remain silent, why so many people on the street don't believe in police uniforms, and why even the name of a good man has to wait until a year after his death to be remembered."

She paused, as if to organize her words: "I think I have been asking myself a question: If I am afraid, should I stay? If I don't know what to do next, should I walk out of that door?"

Her eyes slowly swept over the uniformed men, the tired yet bright eyes, the police officers with calloused fingers and rain-soaked hair.

"Later, I figured it out."

Victoria raised her chin and spoke in a light tone, but surprisingly clearly: "I stayed, not because the fire didn't burn me, but because I saw Westminster collapse at night. I stayed, not because I was ordered to, but because I saw the police officers didn't step back in the chaos. I stayed, not because I was born noble, but because if I don't stay, who will remember that they once stood in the wind and rain, in front of the raging fire?"

Each of these three sentences is like water dripping on stone, silent but penetrating deeply.

After a moment's silence, a police hat was slowly taken off, followed by the second and the third. No one gave orders, no one shouted slogans, but more than 140 black and blue police hats were raised steadily in front of the altar like a wave.

The officers did not applaud, they just slowly took off their hats and pressed them to their chests. Not because of orders, not because of etiquette, they were not used to applauding a child in the ceremony. As for their hat-off ceremony, it was not because of her bloodline, but because of her promise, a simple, irrefutable promise - although I am afraid, I will stay.

Then, a light applause came from a man who looked like a craftsman in the back row.

The next second, a second and a third sound rang out from the crowd.

The applause first came like raindrops falling on rocks, then gradually became one, like a tide rushing onto the shore, restrained, slow, but unstoppable.

There was no uproar like in the theater, nor the applause like in the town hall. It started with a citizen, an old craftsman wearing a cap and with a white beard. He clapped three times and then stopped, as if he was afraid of disturbing the solemn scene. But then, the gardener, printer, and coachman next to him also followed suit.

In the audience, some elderly citizens had tears in their eyes. A retired veteran wearing a felt hat took a deep breath and kept saying that it was really hot today.

In the row at the innermost part of the church, near the arch, a mother in her early thirties held her child's hand and whispered, "God bless Her Royal Highness, dear, remember what she said today."

Meanwhile, Mr. Reddish, the parliamentary reporter for The Observer, was so skeptical that he even forgot to take out his notebook. He just shook his head in self-mockery and said, "I haven't heard such truth for a long time."

Applause broke out from the people, slowly, warmly but firmly spreading to the VIP seats in the front row.

The nobles were not used to applauding, but some of them nodded slightly, as if in recognition of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince.

The Duchess of Kent heard the thunderous applause behind her and couldn't help but smile and nodded to her daughter: "Well done, Delena."

The observer sent by the Ministry of Internal Affairs originally intended to record the main semantics of the princess' speech, but after hesitating for a long time, he did not write down a single word, and finally only scribbled one sentence: The people's sentiments are obviously moving.

At that moment, time seemed to pause.

Robert Carley's portrait stood quietly on the side of the pulpit, and the black frame reflected a circle of warm luster in the sunlight.

Sir Arthur Hastings, who was standing far away in the shadow of the colonnade, had now moved to lean against the side of the arch.

He did not come closer, nor did he make any conspicuous movements. He just casually put the pair of white gloves into his pocket.

It was as if this speech was supposed to be her battle alone.

As everyone cheered, no one noticed that Arthur pulled Robert Carley's eldest son to a corner and put a bloody lead bullet in his hand: "Keep it, boy, this is your father's."

At this moment, the church bells rang.

The morning time is eleven o'clock sharp.

(End of this chapter)