shadow of britain

Chapter 854 Hastings, Who Never Looks Back

A thick fog was quietly creeping up from the fields on the north bank of the Thames, wrapping the morning breeze into a heavy, damp white cloud that clung to the branches, horse manes, and reins.

In England, the sky always brightens very early in June; before dawn, the sky is already faintly white.

On the main road leading from Windsor Castle to London, in front of the Hammersmith outpost, a squad of Royal Canadian Mounted Police stood silently on both sides of the road, cloaked and with swords at their waists. Wisps of hot air emanated from the horses' nostrils, turning into blurry shadows in the mist.

Sir Arthur Hastings stood at the very front.

He did not ride a horse, but stood alone under the chestnut tree by the roadside, wet with morning dew, his gloved hands behind his back.

The jet-black horse behind him was stamping its hooves restlessly, as if even it was aware that the journey ahead was extraordinary.

Suddenly, faint ruts and hoofbeats came from ahead.

A convoy broke through the morning mist and sped along the forest path.

“Sir Arthur,” a mounted policeman whispered, urging his horse closer, “they’ve arrived.”

Arthur didn't speak, but simply looked up at the pale light that hadn't yet fully illuminated the horizon.

The convoy braked suddenly, and a priest in a robe jumped out of the lead car and skillfully opened the door.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was wearing a grey and white morning robe, and his face appeared particularly pale in the headlights.

He walked slowly but with great order, one hand resting on a silver-inlaid scepter, the other hand slightly raised.

“Sir Arthur Hastings.” The archbishop’s voice was old but still dignified: “His Majesty William passed away in Windsor at 2:12 a.m. today.”

Arthur nodded slightly, not asking for details, but simply replied softly, "I already know from the telegram."

The door of another carriage opened, and Lord Cunningham, the Lord Chancellor of the Palace, wearing a black cloak, looked even more tired than the Archbishop, but his words were extremely concise: "We need to get into London immediately and head to Kensington Palace."

Arthur did not answer. Instead, he mounted his horse, raised his right hand, which was covered by a white glove, with his five fingers together, and then turned his wrist to point towards London.

The fog was slowly receding, and a sliver of silvery-blue light was beginning to appear on the distant horizon.

"We must arrive before dawn."

At a command, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who had worked all night, immediately lined up, and the extinguished torches were relit one by one, spreading out like crane wings along the edge of the road.

Arthur turned his horse around and took the lead without hesitation.

The team sets off.

The sound of horses' hooves broke through the morning mist, and wheels rolled over the still-dry mud. The cabins in the woods along the way were still asleep, but the clock tower in the distance had already struck four times.

The convoy sped along the main road, and the fog seemed to sense the solemn and dignified journey, automatically giving way and receding layer by layer, leaving only the wet streets and the still-dormant cobblestone road.

The wheels rolled, the sound of horses' hooves mingling with the dew, sounding like the beating of war drums echoing in the heart of London. Occasionally, a few barks could be heard from afar, their sounds shrouded in mist and swallowed by the chimes of the tower the next second.

At the East London outpost, the feathered "Whitechapel Watchmen" are already lined up in formation.

Without needing to say a word, they simply pointed their whips the instant Arthur and his party passed by, and the convoy naturally merged into the formation from both sides.

Beneath the bell tower of Westminster Abbey, the Bow Street mounted police silently raised their hands, touched their foreheads with two fingers, and then spurred their horses to join the fray.

Their cloaks were embroidered with silver crosses, echoing the coat of arms of the Archbishop of Canterbury, signifying that divine and royal authority stood side by side at this moment.

Beside the sentry post in Hyde Park, several guardsmen, wearing brand-new cloaks, rode out from the shadows of the trees and silently joined the procession escorting the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham.

The entire formation gradually expanded from the initial ten riders and three carts to fifteen riders, twenty riders, then thirty riders, forty riders...

The warhorses' iron hooves pounded in unison to the same rhythm, and the stirrups made a series of crisp sounds as they rubbed against the brass buckles on their leg guards.

Arthur remained steadily at the front, without looking back.

The Scotland Yard police officers stationed along the main roads stood ramrod straight. Upon seeing the convoy led by Sir Arthur Hastings, they seemed to know something. The officers silently removed their helmets and placed them on their chests, then bowed slightly in salute to the convoy.

After entering London, the scenery on both sides of the road subtly changed.

The first rays of orange-white dawn appeared on the horizon, but the early morning air in London still carried a hint of chill.

Street vendors were busy setting up their stalls, washing their baskets, and polishing their scales and weights. But when the black convoy slowly came into view, the air seemed to suddenly be sucked out, and everyone involuntarily held their breath.

A female fishmonger was pushing her cart from the ferry crossing on the south bank of the Thames to catch the early morning market. She had a thick woolen cloak draped over her shoulders and was humming an off-key nursery rhyme.

She saw the long line emerge from the fog like a tide, and immediately stopped in her tracks, her smile freezing in the cold air.

Several butchers wearing leather aprons were loading pork onto wooden racks at the shop entrance. Before the copper hooks were even properly secured, they were startled and turned around by the sound of horses' hooves.

A Devon farmer, pulling a donkey cart and carrying two baskets of strawberries into town, took off his hat with a puzzled look. Based on the simple understanding of country folk, he knew this couldn't be a regular funeral, because there were no black veils, but it wasn't a celebration either, because there was no band.

At London Bridge, a newsboy, rubbing his sleepy eyes as he emerged from a pile of sacks, watched the silent yet imposing procession of mounted police and carriages pass by. His mouth gaped open, still clutching yesterday's unsold copy of *The Times*, which carried an outdated news item: His Majesty William's condition is stable.

Meanwhile, in the newspaper office on Fleet Street, the coal stoves had just been lit, and the desks were piled high with morning publications that had not yet been proofread.

The editors, who had rushed over, were copying and transcribing the cold, hard Morse code, which they then pasted onto the top cover draft—The Tower of London had fallen.

Before dawn, the heart of this empire had been replaced with new blood.

When the convoy arrived at Kensington Palace, it was already dawn. The orange light of the sunrise shone on the old red brick walls, making every crack in the stone seem faintly hot.

The caravan slowed down, the sound of horses' hooves echoing on the gravel road, growing clearer and clearer before the still-dormant palace.

The tall iron gate was tightly closed, the lamps on the porch were still lit, and two Cold Creek Guard infantrymen in military uniforms stood guard in front of the gate. Their expressions were a little confused and tired, and they obviously did not know what the purpose of the black caravan outside the gate was.

The lead guard instinctively stepped forward, raised his rifle, and saluted: "Excuse me..."

Before he finished speaking, Arthur had already dismounted.

He didn't speak, but simply took out the Privy Council Ring that the Archbishop of Canterbury had given him from his pocket.

The ancient silver seal, engraved with "Honour, Service, Crown," shone in the morning light.

"Please inform Her Highness Princess Victoria immediately that His Majesty William Howley, Archbishop of Canterbury, and His Excellency Lord Cunningham, Lord Lord Chamberlain, request an audience."

The guard's eyes widened, and he immediately lowered his gun. He first raised his hand to salute Arthur, then hurriedly turned and ran towards the inner door.

Meanwhile, several police units from Scotland Yard appeared quietly outside the palace walls, as if they had sprung up from the ground.

The roads around Kensington Palace were quietly taken over, and coachmen and servants were politely directed to the other side under the pretext of "temporary road inspections".

The Marquess of Cunningham opened the car door and got out before the Archbishop.

He straightened his cloak, looked at the vast Kensington Palace, and couldn't help but sigh, "This palace wasn't designed to welcome kings."

Kensington Palace, an old residence that has been regarded as a hideout for peripheral members of the royal family and royal lovers since the Hanoverian dynasty, has never belonged to the core of power.

But today, this palace will witness the coronation of a new king. The Archbishop of Canterbury stood beneath the carriage shaft, gazing silently at the high window of Kensington Palace adorned with the coat of arms of the Hanoverian family.

“Cunningham,” he asked in a low voice, his tone still steady, “Have your men… already informed the House of Lords and the House of Commons?”

“I have already sent someone to inform them,” the Marquess of Cunningham replied softly. “Parliament will hold a special consultation meeting at nine o’clock. The House of Lords will first discuss the succession procedure, and then the House of Commons will file the petition. The Lord Chancellor, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Lord Keeper of the Seal, and the Speakers of both houses will be present.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury nodded, but his expression remained serious: "Has the sealed list from Windsor been prepared? Have His Majesty's seal, emblem, and filing cabinets been sealed?"

“Execute it all.” The Marquess of Cunningham paused, a hint of weariness creeping into his voice. “His Majesty did not leave a formal oral decree on his deathbed. But as is customary, His Majesty William’s private correspondence will be taken by the Queen, state documents will be transferred by the Privy Council Secretary to the Home Office for safekeeping, and the Crown and Scepter will be taken over by the Royal Estates Office. The palace attendants have also signed a confidentiality agreement.”

"And the Prime Minister?" The Archbishop looked up slightly. "Does he already know?"

“The Viscount of Melbourne is still in Broadlands.” Cunningham frowned. “But I’ve sent a messenger there overnight.”

The archbishop breathed a sigh of relief after hearing this.

That sigh carried no emotion, but was simply the confirmation from an old man who had lived through the time of George III that the system could still function with the precision of a clock.

This isn't the best arrangement, but it's the most organized one yet.

The iron gate was tightly shut, and cold air seeped out from the rusted iron seams, as if intentionally or unintentionally delaying the time.

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting for more than ten minutes, with only the morning breeze and the white mist from the horses' breath rising and falling in the air.

Lord Cunningham's brow furrowed more and more. He glanced impatiently at the guard: "The situation is urgent. Please send someone to urge them again."

No sooner had they finished speaking than they heard a flurry of footsteps, and a uniformed male servant came running out, panting.

His expression showed no real reverence, but rather confusion and unease.

He gave a perfunctory bow and said, "Gentlemen, please wait a moment, Sir John will be here shortly."

“Sir John?” Cunningham was taken aback, then his expression changed slightly: “Where are the Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria?”

“They are still getting up,” the valet repeated. “Please wait a moment, gentlemen, Sir John will be here shortly.”

Sure enough, after a while, a familiar figure emerged from the side door.

John Conroy remained impeccably dressed, his expression revealing a barely concealed smugness and excitement, as if he had everything inside and outside the palace gates under his control.

"Gentlemen," Conroy first bowed to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham, but did not immediately make way. Instead, he asked slowly, "I wonder what important event has brought you here at this time?"

The Marquess of Cunningham's hand unconsciously rested on the hilt of his sword, but the Archbishop of Canterbury gently waved his hand to stop him.

"His Majesty William passed away in Windsor at 2:12 a.m. today." The Archbishop of Canterbury spoke slowly and deliberately, his words seemingly vibrating the very air: "We are obliged by the Kingdom to have an audience with Her Highness Princess Victoria immediately."

Conroy's expression shifted in an instant, first astonishment, then a look of grief.

"Your Excellencies... what devastating news! His Majesty William was always kind and benevolent, and his sudden passing will plunge the entire nation into endless grief. I have always been very close to the Duchess of Kent and Her Highness the Princess, but Her Highness is still very young..."

As he spoke, he took a step forward, raising his arm slightly, as if to walk alongside the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham.

However, before Conroy could get close, a cold voice suddenly broke through the fog: "Stop."

Conroy paused for a moment, then looked in the direction of the sound and saw that Arthur had already taken a step forward.

As dawn broke, light and shadow slanted down his shoulders, making the water droplets on his black swallowtail coat sparkle.

His white-gloved hands remained behind his back, but his gaze was as cold as a knife, unabashedly cutting into Conroy's face.

“Sir John,” Arthur said in a flat but firm tone, “Make way.”

Conroy's smile seemed to be abruptly ripped off, freezing on his face.

He stood in the middle of the steps, his shoulder blades tensing almost imperceptibly, as if trying to deflect the sharp, imposing aura with a few polite words, but Arthur gave him no opening. His dark, reddish eyes were calm and collected, like a still, deep sea, giving one the intuition that "one more step forward and you will fall into it."

The steps were empty and quiet, with only the wind sweeping through the eaves of the palace walls.

Conroy gritted his teeth and held on for two seconds before finally taking a half-step to the side.

Half a step isn't much, but it's enough to clear the way.

He lowered his head, as if avoiding the morning light, or perhaps avoiding Arthur's gaze: "Of course... Sir Arthur Hastings. State affairs... state affairs come first."

Arthur didn't answer, he just raised his chin.

The two mounted police officers behind him understood, stepped forward, and their boots clicked as they landed neatly on the stone steps, guarding both sides of the road.

Conroy's Adam's apple bobbed slightly, as if his spine had been crushed by that blow.

“Go and inform the Duchess.” Conroy turned his head and whispered to the hesitant valet beside him, “Immediately, right now! Tell her that the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chamberlain are waiting for her in the drawing room.”

The valet paused, his gaze shifting between Conroy and Arthur, as if trying to discern who was truly in charge at Kensington Palace this morning.

Arthur merely glanced at him, and the servant immediately nodded in agreement, practically jogging down the corridor and disappearing around the corner.

Arthur shifted the white glove gripping his sword's hilt, but he didn't touch it. Instead, with extreme restraint, he shifted his weight slightly forward, took a step to the side, and moved away from the center, giving way to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham. He then stood on the flank, half-protecting and half-leading: "Your Majesty, Your Excellency, please proceed."

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham exchanged a glance, then nodded to Arthur and stepped onto the stairs.

Cunningham followed closely behind, his sleeve brushing against Conroy's cuff.

Conroy kept his head down, only stiffly taking a small step back when the tips of the two officials' boots and the hems of their robes passed by his feet.

Immediately afterwards, Arthur silently stepped onto the steps, maintaining a distance of no more than half a step ahead or behind the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham.

The gap that should have been naturally filled by Conroy was occupied by him with an unquestionable attitude and brand-new rules and standards.

Conroy stood frozen in place, like a discarded piece that had been moved from the center of a chessboard.

He instinctively wanted to step forward side by side, but found that Arthur had already firmly locked the gap in the corridor with his shoulder and elbow lines.

He had no choice but to retract his toes, bend slightly, and land half a step behind Arthur.

The corridor is long, with red bricks and stone pillars casting long shadows in the morning light. Several oil portraits hang on the walls, their dim light gleaming in the morning dampness. At the end of the corridor, a clock ticks at an extremely even rhythm, each chime nailing time into the heart of Kensington Palace.

Arthur's boot heels pressed against the boundary between the stone surface and the edge of the blanket, making a very slight friction sound.

He neither looked at the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquess of Cunningham, nor did he turn around.

He only looked ahead, at the archway leading to the reception room, and the unseen door behind the archway, which had already been pushed open.

At the entrance to the reception room, another male servant came forward to greet them.

His gaze first fell on the Archbishop of Canterbury and Cunningham, then followed their figures backward, finally settling on Arthur's face. He bowed deeply and said, "Please come in."

(End of this chapter)