With that final pronouncement, Arthur’s eyes rolled back in his head, he toppled sideways and lay motionless.
THE KING OF England, Jolyon Wakefield-Pugh, tutted affectionately.
“Nutty as a fruitcake,” he laughed.
He rose to his feet and turned to deal with the last bit of unfinished business.
But the boy was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh,” groaned Jolyon. “Oh bugger.”
BEN WAS WOOZY and concussed but he still had enough presence of mind to slip away quietly the moment he regained semi-consciousness. Once he was out of earshot he increased his pace, half falling forwards with every frantic step. He made for the school buildings, which seemed to offer the best chance of cover and safety.
The bump to his head had only made the events of the morning seem even more surreal and dreamlike. Had he really been attacked by two men who thought he was king? Had Jack really been shot down in cold blood right in front of his eyes? Could any of this be real?
He broke cover at the tree-line and made for the ruins of the main building. There was a cellar there where he could hide.
But when he made it to the bricks he lost his footing and fell, sprawling on the ruined masonry. As he lay there he could feel consciousness slipping away again. The fear of death overwhelmed him, and he whimpered “Mum” before succumbing to the darkness.
LIEUTENANT SANDERS, LATE of the SAS, now barracked at Salisbury with the remnants of the British Army, had all but given up hope. Six months spent chasing royalty, and all he’d found were corpses. Each time he found a new one he’d contact his superior officer and break the bad news. And each time he was ordered to go find the next person on the list.
Sanders wasn’t much of a monarchist, but he had to concede that a figurehead would be a useful rallying point for the scattered survivors of post-Cull Britain. A heroic king or a stern but comely queen would provide a focal point for patriotism and a sense of allegiance that could help rebuild the nation.
It helped keep the army in line too, if they had someone they could swear an oath to.
So he’d scoured the length and breadth of the British Isles with a list of names and last known addresses, trying to find the rightful monarch. And each time he arrived, they were dead. He wasn’t stupid, after the third body he’d realised that someone else was using the same list for a different agenda. A radical republican, maybe?
He skipped to number five on the list, but was too late. Then seven. Again, too late, and the body too long cold. Now he’d jumped to eleven. He had to get ahead of this bastard, whoever he was.
When he got to Harrow he went in cautiously, weapon at the ready. The school was still smoking, and he got a familiar sinking feeling. There was no-one alive here.
But just as he was about to give up and go on to the next name, he caught an impression of movement through the wisps of smoke. Moving cautiously, he stalked his prey.
JOLYON WAKEFIELD-PUGH STOOD over the unconscious body of the boy he believed to be king and considered his next move.
More specifically: knife, gun or brick?
He eventually plumped for brick, reached down and grabbed one, enjoying its heft and solidity. He raised his right arm, ready to bring the brick crashing down on the boy’s skull, ready to seize his destiny.
WITH HIS ARM raised, the man presented a perfect target. Sanders knew nothing of his grievance or motive in wanting the boy dead, but he knew a murderer when he saw one. Martial law gave him the right to take action, and he was not afraid to do so.
He put three rounds into the chest of the King of England, killing him instantly, and he felt satisfied that he had done right.
Then he ran to offer aid to the fallen boy.
Sanders turned him over and felt for a pulse. Strong and steady. He was alive, but he had a nasty head wound that needed some attention. He had a medical kit in his jeep, so he leaned down and grabbed the boy’s hands, lifting him into a sitting position, ready to throw him over his shoulder. As he did so, something fell out of the boy’s pocket on to the ground.
He let go of the boy’s right arm and reached down to pick up the library card.
He read the name on the card.
Then he looked down at the boy.
Then he looked back at the card.
“Well fuck me sideways, Your Majesty,” said Sanders, grinning fit to burst. “Pleased to meet you.”
He threw the child over his shoulder and walked back to his jeep, singing the Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen at the top of his voice.
ARTHUR ST JOHN Smith sat in the bottom of the ice house, pressed hard on his stomach wound and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
He had crawled away from the scene of the shooting, instinctively seeking a quiet sheltered place in which to die, like a mortally wounded cat. Now he sat on the soft carpet of moss and leaves, feeling his life seeping out through his fingers, waiting for the fair folk to come and carry him back to Avalon, to wait for the call to come again.
He knew they would find him. It was only a matter of time. He just had to be patient. His destiny was calling, he could hear it on the wind.
A fox peered in at the doorway, sniffing the air, drawn by something else the wind carried — the enticing tang of fresh blood.
Arthur heaved a stone at it, and it ran away.
For now.
CHILDREN’S CRUSADE
PROLOGUE
CAROLINE OPENED HER good eye and winced. It was hard to divorce the pounding in her head from the shockwaves of the explosion that still reverberated around the small room. The walls were painted white but they glowed orange as the fireball billowed up the street outside.
Even with her head swathed in bandages, her hearing muffled, and her vision clouded by the lingering anaesthetic — not to mention the fact that one of her eyes was healing underneath a thick gauze dressing — Caroline knew instantly what was occurring.
Someone was attacking the base.
The night was warm and the window was open. It rattled in its frame and a wave of hot air pushed the curtains towards the ceiling.
She was lying flat on her back with her hands on her belly and was wearing what felt like a cotton nightdress. The crisp white sheets felt luxurious on her bare calves. It had been so long since she’d felt clean sheets.
She remembered her mother ironing the bed linen in front of the telly, watching Eastenders from within a cloud of steam.
The curtains fell back into place and the orange glow faded and began to flicker as fires took hold. Caroline heard the crack of small-arms fire; sporadic at first, then constant and concentrated. Fire and a firefight. She wondered how long it would take for the conflict to reach her room, and what would happen when it did.
She sniffed the air, expecting cordite and smoke, but instead smelled lilies, strong and pungent. She focused on the chest of drawers that sat against the wall directly in front of her. The sense that she was one step sideways from reality was reinforced by the uneasy feeling that the world was somehow flatter. If she never recovered the use of her other eye then things would always be this way; the depth of the world reduced to one smooth surface, like a painting or a television.
On top of the wardrobe stood a large green vase which held about ten flowering lilies, their petals white with streaks of purple and yellow. They were exquisite.