What if the King of England staged a coup, and gained absolute power?
King Alfred II reigns over Great Britain.
Frustrated by the lack of real power of the modern monarchy, the King seizes back the power once wielded by his ancient ancestors.
But the world does not want to let him keep it...
In a history where Queen Elizabeth II never came to the throne, the British Royal Family turned out very differently.
This is my latest book, which I am serializing for you here on Steemit. You can buy this book on Amazon (clickable here) or any other online bookshop, both electronically and in print, or you can read it free right here.
I am also thinking of recording an audiobook of this title. Please let me know if you would like that.
I look forward to interacting with you. If you have any questions about the story, locations, characters, events, or background, please ask (though I will only answer them if it doesn’t require revealing spoilers!).
This book is the product of years of preparation, research, and writing. I hope you enjoy it!
Read on:
CHAPTER TWO - Risk (part 3 of 3)
The Admiral stood up straight, almost to attention. “As you wish, Your Majesty. May I suggest he serves alongside an established captain? Until he re-learns the ropes.”
“That will be quite satisfactory, Frederick. I wouldn’t insist if it weren’t important. As heir to the throne, Adrian must get accustomed to taking command. It is essential to success. You and whichever captain you choose have a critical part to play. I hope you understand that.”
“We’ll, do everything necessary,” Admiral Billington said.
“Good. In fact, I’ve a specific idea regarding which ship he should command.”
“I’ll be very interested to hear it,” the Admiral said with hesitation.
The King smiled.
“You may,” the King said, reclining in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, “speak freely.”
Blair Lindsey stood next to the King’s desk, looking at the floor. “I’m not sure I can, Your Majesty.”
“Come now, dear boy, out with it.”
Lindsey inclined his head upward, looked to the floor, to the desk, then into the King’s eyes. “The Prince is not,” he said, glancing at the ceiling before fixing his gaze on the King, “trustworthy.”
“Really, Blair,” Alfred said, eyes widening, “you’ll have to justify that statement.”
Wrapping his arms around his notebook, Lindsey shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “His philandering, for example.”
The King sighed, taking his feet off the desk and standing. “Surely a man’s indiscretions in the bedchamber do not define him.”
“I believe they do. If he shows no compunction about unfaithfulness to his wife – and his girlfriends, for that matter – then what chance he’ll be faithful to his country? I mean, who’s he closer to? His own family, or the British people? And it’s not just his sexual immorality. There’s also his deception, drinking–”
“Enough!” The King stood up, dominating the shorter man. He held out a hand in front of him, gesticulating before the words came. “I do not believe the way you do. I cannot! He is my son, and he fears me. I will mould him into a trustworthy leader. At the bottom of it all… he is a good boy.”
“I apologise, Your Majesty. I spoke too freely.”
“I should think so.” Moving to stand toe to toe with Lindsey, the King gazed downward into the younger man’s blue irises. Lindsey averted his eyes.
Alfred began pacing around the room. “And then, if Adrian doesn’t start taking his responsibilities seriously, I’ll send him to the Falklands. Both he and his harem. So, what have we next on today’s agenda?”
“Well, it’s hard to say, what with the diary being in such a shambles after your big announcement in Parliament. Many of your appointments no longer apply. Now, if you’d told me in advance what you were planning, I could’ve wrangled your schedule accordingly.”
“The King must have some secrets. I believe it’s mandatory.”
Lindsey raised an eyebrow. “Surely not from his personal assistant?”
Both men smiled.
“Obviously,” Lindsey said, halting, looking at the floor, “you know you’re doing the right thing.”
The Kings scrutiny returned to Lindsey. “Is that a question or statement?”
Lindsey met the King’s eye. “Whichever gets me into less trouble.”
The Kings gaze remained steady. “Next appointment, Blair?”
Lindsey consulted the diary he carried next to his notebook. Many items were blacked out, and extra items were written in wherever there was space so that the pages were full to the margins. “I think your meeting with the Parliamentary privileges committee will still be valid. Perhaps even more so now.”
“Good.” The King looked at the floor, and ran his hand over his smooth chin as if examining it for stubble. “Good.”
Television cameras tracked Archbishop Youngblood and another man as they sat under studio lights. Youngblood wore conservative clerical attire. The other man – a well-fed but not fat gentleman who wore squareish glasses and a moustache – was dressed in a standard business suit, his thick dark hair streaked with grey.
“Please, Mr McKinnell, call me Woollie. Everyone else does.”
“Of course. And please, call me Doyle. Now what I, and the nation, want to know is, exactly what part do you play in the New Order?”
“I have only ever been a humble functionary, Doyle, and that is what I will continue to be.”
“A humble functionary who has the ear of the King. That’s got to count for something.”
Youngblood’s brow furrowed. “Obviously His Majesty has as much need for spiritual counsel as anyone. And of course, he has my ear as well.”
“As what? Confessor?”
“Not quite. We are not Rome, after all.”
“But His Majesty confides in you, yes?”
“We have long enjoyed,” Youngblood said, leaning back comfortably in his chair, “a very good relationship, personally and professionally.”
“So you knew he was going to stage this… coup.”
The Archbishop sat upright again. “Well, I’m not at liberty to say.” He smiled a conspiratorial smile. “These are, after all, matters of National Security.”
“You can’t say whether or not you knew? Surely the cat’s out of the bag now.”
“This particular cat, yes.”
“I see,” McKinnel said. “As a member, then, of the King’s inner circle of advisors and confidantes, do you approve of his actions?”
“He acts on the advice of many people, and many points of view. In the end, the sovereign can act with or without the approval of his subjects, as he has shown most ably. I support him as best I can, within the limits of my wisdom, my conscience, and my position as head of the English Church.”
“With his new interest in governing the country, does he also wish to govern the church? After all, he is titular head of the Church of England.”
“Definitely not. He has too much on his plate already. He trusts me with the Church. Implicitly. But let’s remember that Christ is the true head of the church.”
“Henry the eighth didn’t agree with that sentiment. Nor did many of his successors.”
“Regardless of what they or anyone else thought,” the Archbishop said with a sardonic smile, “one cannot take away what belongs to Christ.”
The interview ended, McKinnel thanked him for coming, and Youngblood walked away from the pool of studio lights to his waiting assistant, a younger and shorter bearded priest.
“That TV idiot’s right, Julian.” Youngblood spat the words out as they walked away from the TV studio, while McKinnel received his next guest. “Alfred doesn’t only want the nation. He wants the Church.” He clenched his teeth. “I will not let him have it. It’s mine!”
@lordrocco
Good Post!
Thanks for sharing.
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