shadow of britain

Chapter 853 The Tower of London Collapses
In the bedroom of Windsor Castle, the candlelight burned extremely slowly, the flames flickering intermittently in the air as if dragged along by some invisible force.

The sky outside the window was pitch black, like a black velvet curtain that had absorbed all the starlight and hope, tightly wrapping the entire castle, making people despair and think that they would never see the dawn again.

A layer of water droplets condensed on the windowsill, and even the sound of the wind was silenced, as if even it could not bear to disturb Queen Adelaide, who had been waiting by William IV's side for ten days without leaving his side.

Queen Adelaide sat by her bedside, leaning against a chair beside the bed, her body almost sinking into the rumpled blankets.

She hadn't closed her eyes for three whole days. Her back ached and felt numb, and a dull ache throbbed in the corners of her eyes, but she dared not fall asleep. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes, the hand she had been holding would grow cold and she would never be able to hold it again.

But a mortal body is not made of steel.

Finally, a vague, irresistible drowsiness washed over me. It wasn't just tiredness; it felt more like being pulled by the still night, slowly sinking to the bottom of the water.

Queen Adelaide's eyelids felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead, and her very bones seemed to be filled with freezing rain.

Her head drooped slightly, her forehead falling into the light and shadow of the bedside.

Finally, her spirit briefly broke down.

She had a dream without color or sound.

There was nothing in the dream, as if the world had been hollowed out, leaving only a vast ocean in front of me. The azure strait was just like the beautiful and tranquil English Channel. The sun hung high in the sky, then gradually slanted westward, sinking little by little, inch by inch, below the sea level.

sun,

It has fallen into the English Channel.

Adelaide was jolted awake from her sleep, her eyes opening as if she had suddenly looked up from icy water.

The first thing she saw was William, the husband she had waited for day and night.

Adelaide thought she might be seeing things, and rubbed her sore and swollen eyes.

William, who had been unconscious for three days and three nights, somehow sat up in bed.

His body leaned against the cushions, his cheeks flushed with an unusual rosy hue, his eyes bright, even carrying a hint of the brilliance of his youth as a sailor.

Adelaide could hardly believe her eyes.

She jumped up and rushed to the bedside, her voice trembling with surprise and disbelief: "William...darling, you...you're awake?!"

William IV did not answer immediately; he simply looked at her quietly, as if trying to recognize the familiar face before him amidst the overlap of dreams and reality.

After a long while, he chuckled softly, a laugh that seemed to come from deep within his chest, yet was surprisingly clear.

"You stayed up late again."

Perhaps because he hadn't drunk water for a long time, William IV's voice sounded extremely hoarse, but that didn't stop his tone from carrying the mischievousness and tenderness that he was used to when he was young.

In an instant, he felt as if he had returned to the year they first stood side by side on the docks of Portsmouth, gazing at the HMS Victory, General Horatio Nelson's flagship, which was about to set sail.

Adelaide paused for a moment, then suddenly threw herself into William IV's arms, tightly grasping his thin, warm hand.

“I wasn’t asleep,” she said softly, her voice choked with emotion, “I just blinked.”

William looked at her with a tenderness that was almost unbelievable for someone on the verge of death.

He raised his hand, his fingertips gently brushing her hair, the movement so tender as if afraid to disturb the night, or as if afraid that this moment would truly vanish.

“You’ve always been here,” William IV said. “As far back as I can remember, the world has always been noisy, troublesome, and impatient. But since I met you, my world has become quiet.”

"You'll get better, you'll get better." Adelaide choked back tears, trying not to shed a tear, but her chin trembled uncontrollably. "I'll go get the royal physician, William, you sleep a little longer..."

“No need.” William gently took her wrist, his eyes suddenly becoming clear and calm, like a clear lake: “I know, I have already seen it. This is my end.”

As Adelaide listened to his words, something inside her felt like it had shattered.

Her throat moved, as if she wanted to speak in rebuttal, but in the end, she couldn't utter a single word.

She understood that the clarity in William IV's eyes was not a sign of recovery, but rather a final burst of light before his soul ascended to heaven.

“I had a very long dream, and I dreamt that I was back at sea,” William IV said softly. “In the winds of the English Channel, the masts creaked, the sailors sang old songs, and I could hear my name being called out in the wind.”

He closed his eyes, as if he were once again immersed in that dream that lasted for three days and three nights.

“Adelaide, I am not fit to be king, I have always known that.” When William IV said this, there was no bitterness in his tone, but rather a sense of relief after taking off his armor: “I am just a sailor who was forced into the crown. They want me to speak like George, wear a dress uniform, and sit in a chair embroidered with gold thread, but I would rather wear a sailor’s uniform, drink rum, and put my boots on the gunwale.”

Adelaide listened silently, tears finally sliding slowly down her cheeks.

“But I did it anyway.” He turned to look at her. “I stumbled and staggered my way to becoming king. I knew I wasn’t a great ruler like Napoleon, nor had I led the country to conquer Europe, much less the reformist monarch they imagined. My cabinet changed constantly, and I never once won a real round of applause from Parliament… I often stuttered during speeches, fell off my horse, and my hands trembled when signing bills…”

He smiled as he said this, a smile so innocent it didn't seem like that of a politician. A moment of silence fell between them. Then, William IV finally asked the question that had been buried in his heart for so long, a question he perhaps intended to take to his grave.

“Adelaide…” His voice was as soft as a night breeze brushing against a window crack: “Do you think… I am a good king?”

“You may not be the best king,” Adelaide said resolutely, her eyes brimming with tears, “but you are the most hardworking and honest monarch I have ever met. You don’t have the political acumen bestowed by God, nor the ruthlessness of a schemer. But you have a passionate heart, and you would never allow the country to make a wrong step, even if it might bring you humiliation. William, I don’t think anyone could do better than you.”

William IV listened quietly, his gaze softening inch by inch, as if the weight on his heart had finally been lifted by her words.

After a long while, he softly hummed in agreement, as if in acknowledgment, or perhaps in sigh.

His fingertips slowly tightened, as if to confirm that he could still hold her hand, even if only these last few minutes remained.

“I have never been able to bring you any good days in my life.” William IV turned to look at his wife: “A cabinet that was always arguing, a palace that was never finished moving, and endless malicious rumors… you have endured all of this with me.”

William IV’s voice grew softer and softer, yet he still tried to remain gentle, as if he wanted to preserve his last shred of dignity for Adelaide.

Adelaide shook her head gently, tears streaming down her face: "Don't say it, darling. Don't say it, darling."

William IV gazed at her, his eyes so tender they were almost transparent: "I must... eventually leave. But what will you do after I'm gone? My lovely little wife..."

Adelaide could no longer hold back. She leaned down, buried her face in his chest, and hugged him tightly, tears dripping onto her husband's still-warm shoulder: "Don't go, William, promise me you won't leave me."

However, William IV did not respond to his wife's tender pleas to stay.

His breathing had stopped, but the corners of his eyes still seemed to carry a faint smile.

Those eyes, which had witnessed countless waves and court intrigues, finally closed slowly, like a once-open cabin door, quietly returning to darkness.

The king has returned to the sea.

Queen Adelaide stood there frozen for a long while before she realized—he was really gone.

In that instant, Adelaide, who had always been polite and never overstepped the bounds of propriety, finally broke down. She sobbed softly, and then, unable to suppress all the sorrow in her heart, she burst into tears.

The guards outside the door moved at the sound, and several of them quickly pushed the door open and entered. The guards were on high alert, but they were all stunned when they saw the scene in front of the bed.

They had never seen the Queen so distraught. Only weeping and the flickering candlelight filled the room.

The senior guard captain slowly stepped forward, bowed, and said, "His Majesty has passed away peacefully. Your Majesty, please accept my condolences."

Adelaide nodded, her voice choked with emotion, tears still streaming down her face.

She gently lowered her husband's fingers one by one, placing them tremblingly on his chest, just as she would when she straightened his naval admiral's uniform.

The captain of the guard turned around: "Summon the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham."

Several guards withdrew in response, and a moment later, the sound of hurried footsteps could be heard in the corridor.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, dressed in black robes, arrived, supported by the Bishop of Windsor, followed by Lord Cunningham, Lord Lord Secretary of State.

They saw William IV lying lifeless on his bed, and Adelaide standing silently weeping at the head of the bed, and simply sighed softly.

Then, the Archbishop of Canterbury, his steps faltering, walked to the royal bedside and, facing the now calm William IV, slowly took out the Gospels and the bottle of holy oil, and solemnly began the last Mass for the sailor king.

He prayed in a deep, drawn-out Latin voice, like waves gently lapping a throne: "Lord, you are a haven of mercy and glory..."

The vast palace was completely silent, save for the dripping of holy water and the echoes of whispered gospels, which slowly enveloped the imperfect but honest and frank king.

Tonight, the stars of Britain still twinkle in the night sky.

But the king of Britain no longer exists.

The Tower of London has collapsed.

A few simple letters were sent from the Windsor Castle telegraph station at an unstoppable speed.

Passing through the misty Surrey Hills, crossing the dew-covered Thames embankment, breaking the bells of Westminster Abbey, following the still chilly railway tracks, heading towards Southampton, Portsmouth, and Liverpool, crossing the English Channel and the cold waves of the North Sea, all the way to Brussels and Hanover in Belgium.

……

The silence at Kensington Palace at night was unnatural, as if the entire mansion itself was holding its breath in the darkness.

In the bedroom at the end of the corridor, the heavy velvet curtains were tightly drawn, blocking out all light, leaving only a small ember of the still-burning fireplace.

Suddenly, the person on the bed sat up abruptly, as if waking up from a nightmare.

Victoria was panting heavily, her eyelashes were covered in cold sweat, and a strand of her long, wet hair clung to her cheek.

Her gaze, still lingering in the dreamlike state, swept around as if to confirm that she was still in reality, and not in that deep illusion.

She had a strange dream, a very strange one.

She dreamed of a heavy crown lying on the waves, floating and drifting until it reached her feet.

She reached out to take it, but the crown suddenly began to sink, like a lead weight dragging her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the black seabed.

The seawater seemed to be pressing in from all directions, and she was unable to move, suffocating to the point of almost screaming.

“Grandfather… no, Uncle George, or Uncle William…” she murmured, her words incoherent and pale.

She reached up and touched her forehead; it was covered in a layer of cold sweat.

Victoria looked up and her gaze fell on the silver-plated clock beside the fireplace.

The time shown above is 2:30 AM.

She frowned and subconsciously glanced toward the side of the bed.

My mother, the Duchess of Kent, would usually peek out at this time to see if she was sleeping or at least taking a nap in her armchair.

But tonight...

she is not here.

Victoria's heart was suddenly gripped by an inexplicable premonition.

She put on her bathrobe, slowly got up, stepped barefoot onto the heavy carpet, walked to the door, and looked out through the keyhole.

The candlelight in the corridor was still burning, but the maid on night watch had vanished.

Victoria tried to open the door, but unsurprisingly, she still couldn't.

She stood in front of the door, suddenly unsure whether she should knock or call for someone.

The strange dream still lingered in her mind; the crown floating on the water, in the darkness and amidst the cold sweat, looked more and more like a pair of eyes sinking.

Victoria felt a little uneasy. She stood by the door for a while, then returned to sit down on the bed.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a while, her heartbeat gradually calming down.

She reached for the sketchbook beside her pillow, turned to the previous page which was an unfinished sketch of a flower, and then to the next page which was a red-breasted robin perched on the iron railing of the balcony.

She suddenly turned to the last page and stopped.

The person in the painting is riding a tall, black horse with curly, ink-like mane that flies in the wind like ocean waves.

He wore a sharply tailored tailcoat, snow-white gloves, left hand on the reins, right hand on his sword, legs tightly gripping the horse's flanks, his posture upright. Beneath the top hat was a face whose features were not detailed.

The face was deliberately left blank, as if even the painter dared not depict it easily.

But the moment Victoria gazed at it, it was as if a gust of wind swept through the pages, stirring up ashes and the lingering sounds of the night wind.

The outline in the painting slowly emerges with some realistic lines.

He had a high nose bridge, sharp brow bones, and tightly pressed lips, giving him a cold and unsmiling look.

It was not a romantic court poet, nor the ideal prince that flooded the illustrations of medieval chivalric novels, but something deeper and more composed.

That was a... real person.

The night wind blew through the horse's mane and cloak, and the sound of iron hooves echoed on the muddy road.

The light from a dozen torches couldn't penetrate the thickest fog of June in England, but it did illuminate the black horse and the rider.

Sir Arthur Hastings was not dressed in formal attire, nor was he carrying a sword, but he still wore his impeccably tailored black tailcoat, his posture as upright as if he were being inspected. He held the reins in his left hand, and his right hand, gloved, rested on the saddle; not a single movement of his body was superfluous.

“Sir Arthur,” a mounted policeman approached and asked in a low voice, “should we continue waiting at the London border, or proceed straight to Windsor Castle?”

(End of this chapter)