The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1956 - 164: Hastings Never Looks Back

The dense fog rose quietly from the fields on the north bank of the Thames River, wrapping the morning breeze into heavy white cotton that intertwined with the branches, horse manes, and reins.

The sky in England always arrives early in June; though dawn had not appeared, there was already a faint whiteness in the sky.

On the main road from Windsor Castle to London, in front of the Hammer Smith police outpost, a troop of Royal Cavalry stood silently on either side of the road, cloaked, with swords hanging at their waists, and their horses exhaling hot air, turning into misty illusions in the fog.

Sir Arthur Hastings stood at the forefront.

He was not riding a horse, but stood alone under the chestnut tree wet with morning dew, his gloved hands clasped behind him.

Behind him, his entirely black horse restless stomped its hooves, as if it too sensed the extraordinary nature of the upcoming journey.

Suddenly, a faint sound of wheels and hooves came from the front.

A convoy broke through the morning mist, speeding along the forest path.

"Sir Arthur." A cavalryman lowered his voice, riding close: "They have arrived."

Arthur didn’t speak, just raised his head and glanced at the horizon tinged with light, not yet fully bright.

The convoy braked suddenly, and from the leading carriage, an attendant in a clerical robe jumped down and skillfully opened the carriage door.

The Archbishop of Canterbury wore a gray and white morning robe, and in the car lights, his face appeared exceptionally pale.

His steps were slow but orderly, one hand leaning on a silver-embellished scepter, the other slightly raised.

"Sir Arthur Hastings." The Archbishop’s voice was aged yet commanding: "His Majesty William passed away at Windsor today at 2:12 in the morning."

Arthur lightly nodded his head, didn’t ask for details, only softly replied: "I have already learned from the telegraph."

The door of another carriage opened, and the Marquis of Cunningham, the Lord Chamberlain, clad in a black cloak, looked more fatigued than the Archbishop, yet his words were extremely concise: "We need to proceed into London immediately, heading to Kensington Palace."

Arthur didn’t respond, but mounted his horse, raised his gloved right hand, fingers together, and then, with a wrist movement, pointed in the direction of London.

The fog was slowly retreating, the horizon in the distance showing a hint of bright silver-blue.

"We must arrive before dawn."

At that command, the Royal Cavalry, who had labored all night, immediately reformed their ranks, torches that had been extinguished were relit, and they lined up like a crane’s wings along the road’s edge.

Arthur turned his horse’s head, unequivocally taking the lead at the front.

The procession set off.

The sound of hooves broke through the morning mist, the wheels rolled over the undried mud, the cottages along the way still slumbering, but the distant Clock Tower already striking four.

The convoy sped along the main road, the fog acknowledging the solemn grandeur of this journey by voluntarily making way, layer by layer receding, leaving only damp streets and the still-sleeping stone-paved paths.

The rolling wheels and the sound of hooves mixed with the dewdrop sounds, resembling a drum of war echoing in London’s heart. Occasionally a few dog barks could be heard from a distance, the sound wrapped in fog, then swallowed by the next clock tower chime.

At the East London Outpost, the feathered Whitechapel Night Watchman had already assembled in formation.

They needed no words, only a whip gesture as Arthur’s procession passed, naturally merging into the convoy, joining the formation.

Under the Clock Tower of Westminster Abbey, Bow Street Riders silently raised their hands, fingers touching their foreheads, then swiftly spurred their horses to join.

On their cloaks, silver-white crosses were embroidered, echoing the emblem of the Archbishop of Canterbury, divine power and royal authority walking side by side at this moment.

Beside the sentry post of Hyde Park, a few Guard Cavalry, clad in brand-new cloaks, emerged from the shadows of the trees, silently joining the escort of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham.

The entire convoy expanded from the initial ten cavalrymen and three carriages, gradually to fifteen riders, twenty riders, then thirty riders, forty riders...

The iron hooves of the warhorses struck in unison, the stirrups brushing against the copper buckles of leg guards, producing crisp sounds.

Arthur continued to walk steadily at the front, without looking back.

Along the route, the Scotland Yard police stationed at the traffic checkpoints stood erect, and when they saw the convoy led by Sir Arthur Hastings, it was as if they understood something. The officers silently removed their helmets, holding them over their chests, then slightly bowed their heads, paying attention to the convoy.

After entering London, the scenery on either side of the road quietly transformed.

The first streak of orange-white dawn appeared on the horizon, a hint of chill still lingering in the morning air of London.

Street vendors busied themselves unfurling canopies, washing vegetable baskets, and polishing scales and weights, yet when the black convoy slowly entered their sight, the air seemed suddenly drained; all instinctively held their breath.

A female fishmonger pushed a cart from the Thames River’s south bank dock towards the early market, a thick woolen cloak draped over her shoulders, humming an off-tune nursery rhyme.

Seeing the long line emerging like a tide from the mist, she paused, her smile freezing in the cold air.

A few butchers in leather aprons were hanging pork onto wooden racks at the shop entrance, the copper hooks not yet steady before the sound of hooves startled them into turning their heads.

A Devonshire farmer, driving a donkey cart laden with two baskets of strawberries into town, puzzled, removed his hat. In his simple, rustic understanding, he knew this was no ordinary funeral procession, for there were no black drapes, nor was it a celebration, for there were no bands.