The Yeoman: Crying Albion Series - Book 1 (15 page)

“Quiet down both of you!” Gearson spoke
firmly, partly because they risked drawing attention to themselves and partly
because Vazwitch had spoken up again.

“We mean only peace, not war among
ourselves,” Veitch reasoned after the clamor had died down. “Race is purely a
social construct and we are all the same underneath our skin. European values
are not about the evils of xenophobia or the sick disease of racism.” He
swelled with his hand on his heart, casting meek looks to the Yeomanry.

“Countless aeons of time would argue
otherwise puppet-man,” Gearson muttered quietly.

“For those that choose to join us in this
journey and fully embrace the New Europeans their door will be generously
compensated along with those who form a new order in helping this to be
achieved.”

“This is where the treachery begins and
loyalty is bought and paid for,” Kallan brooded.

“The upper-classes and their retinue
Yeomanry have a long and true history on this island. But times move on and it
is time for them to step down in
honor
and allow a police-orientated authority to
step-forward. We must enforce the peace as only then must there be any peace in
the world.”

Just before the ecstatic liberals howled in
unrestrained glee and whooped like hyenas the Colonel turned to Gearson with
steel in his eyes. “Alright, whatever it takes, I'm in. We do it your way,” he
uttered.

Veitch heaped great lashings of outrage and
scorn upon the spread of civilization and colonization by Europeans. That which
had richly contributed to the world was demonized. He rounded it off by
extoling the superiority of Africans, and along with any other tribe that was
non-European.

“Remember,” he said with hands clasped
together. “Our priority is you! This is our directive.” There was a rising crescendo
in his voice.

His speech being concluded and the
proclamation from him complete, Veitch left the podium all smiles and waves. His
brunette wife and brown-skinned children, the fruit of their union, greeted him
as the roar of the crowd rattled eardrums for nearly half-a-minute. When it had
settled Gearson nearly missed the last, fading words that echoed through him
over and over.

“Kallan,
restore the balance.”

He breathed deeply as an awesome power of
responsibility went flooding through him. More words followed, some of
information, others of guidance. It was like an inner answer and solution to
counter the ways of their enemies.

“Very well, we observe no longer,” Gearson
said icily. “Come, we must be away from this den of traitors, it’s no longer
safe.”

“But Kallan, the Yeomanry have yet to make
their case! The trade-zone—” Penkin said furtively.

“Words will not make any difference now
Colonel, the enemy has shown their hand, we must be away,” he said sighing.

He turned and made to leave. Riley followed
but the Colonel hesitated and looked once more back to the Yeomanry moving into
position. It was the Yeomanry’s turn to speak. Major Roger Matthews was looking
to his men and exchanging a few words. Penkin knew him casually and a few
others of their number from his younger days and felt compelled to stay for a
moment. Then Riley tugged at his arm and he too was away, threading through the
crowd of sheep who watched to see more of the spectacle.

Major Matthews
walked up to the podium, he was in his fifties and smartly attired in his
Yeomanry dress uniform of dark green. His ancestry could be counted back to the
Norse and Germanic settlers of the islands before 800 AD like the rest of his
kinsmen. Before that it stretched back to the last ice age and beyond. His
bloodline and many before it had forged lives throughout the European landmass
and elsewhere.

Now he saw a vast abyss rising up from the
direction of Veitch that would slowly swallow his future and that of his
children, his children's children and beyond like a death by a thousand cuts.
Albion might be secure, but much of populated Britain was not.

Yet what could the free-minded Yeomanry do?
They lacked the numbers, ordnance and vehicles they enemie had. The regular
armed forces in Britain were still stuck in a strange marriage of heavy
restrictions, archaic laws, needless regimentation and grinding subservience
though. They seemed little better than augmenting the Enforcers nowadays. Of
the latter the weaponry they commanded seemed to be borderline military-grade.
This they openly displayed whether prowling either streets, in cyberspace or at
the camera-control points. All the while the citizenry were disarmed and heavy
penalties imposed for even the possession of irritant sprays.

Matthews’ blood boiled at the Prime-Speakers
clever barbed-tongue but he controlled his temper and glanced down once at his
own speech. It was originally his own words in entirety, holding back somewhat
on much of what he'd like to say. Yet even those careful words had been edited
and amended by the Home Office to a more ‘politically-correct’ version.

The Major looked out to the crowd that
waited; not all were hopeless liberals, deviants and other flotsam. The old
ways that were still flickering here and there. He tossed the speech aside.

“Many of you do not know who I am. I am Major
Roger Matthews of the Yorkshire Hussars. For two decades now I've sworn to
serve this country and now Albion as a Yeomanry officer.”

“Go back north traitor,” yelled a heckler.

The officer ignored him as his resolution
was unshakeable. He continued speaking.

“In the Yeomanry we can only attain the
highest rank of Colonel. Part of this reason was so that the government of the
day can function and the nation-state continue without the risk of tyranny. The
other reason is the ancient obligation every Briton of old had as a duty to
fight and present himself ready for combat if the need arose. Nowadays that
same duty is kept alive in both the Yeomanry and the regular armed forces. I
know that most of you are town and city-born here but we'd lay down our lives
for you just the same as those in our distant shires of Albion. That is who I
am and what my brother officers and rangers are.”

Veitch made a just-noticeable jerk that
caught a few eyes. He felt a shudder rattle though him that generated a twinge
of fear. Veitch saw that, far from the man being an archaic and out-dated relic
Matthews was actually stepping outside the preconceived notions they had of
people like him and causing them to listen evenly.

The Prime-Speaker hadn't planned for this
and looked to his Chief of Operations who was out of sight from the mainstream
camera-viewers. Police Commissioner David Nomes. Nomes was a dour-looking man
with gloomy eyes and a frightful disposition. A serpentine brain swam with
deception and intrigues. He was a-political for the most part, but shared with Veitch
both a lust for perversions and a malicious intent to those not on his
wavelength. Nomes nodded and raised his comms-piece then spoke into it using a
pre-arranged code.

First the live-feed being broadcast around
the country was partially-cut. It went as far as the news-corporations but
sophisticated data-link routing adjusted and no transmission went beyond it.
Personal video-devices were not affected but for now it was damage-limitation
not outright control. Several riot-enforcers now made their way forward through
the crowd heading along the right-hand side of the vast chamber. The Operations
Commissioner for the City of London led them. Nomes was reassured by the fact
that the Yeomanry had followed the letter of the law. By showing up without
firearms and no bodyguards, save for their drivers’, it made the enforcers’ looming
task much easier. The Yeomen still held on to their ceremonial weaponry though,
something that troubled him and a few others.

“What the Prime-Speaker has proclaimed as a
Directive is sedition and treachery to the people and this nation,” Matthews
warned. “It’s the culmination of many years of festering schemes, statutes and
laws designed to break apart the native people. The end result is so both you
and the unwanted foreigners will end up nothing more than slaves. Those
standing here and listening to this same proclamation forty years ago, nay even
thirty years ago, would have brought down a government that dared speak of such
madness.”

The microphone went dead at the end of his
sentence but Matthews quickly adjusted by raising his voice. He removed himself
from the podium and carried on regardless. Only the first four or five rows
heard him at first but his booming voice elevated in depth so it carried much
further.

“Even back then no ruling party or
leadership would wish for the risk of civil war from the lunacy now common from
these delusional fools.” He said it all with such righteous authority that was
beginning to strike a chord with some. “The Colonels stepped in before over
much less, perhaps they must once again step in to avert this funeral ceremony?!”

Nomes chuckled at this, with the
near-complete disarmament of the English and Welsh there was next to no chance
of any revolt, rebellion or uprising from them. Any defiant ones that hoped to
rally support additionally had the challenge of being vastly outnumbered by an
indifferent, apathetic populace. The people were too gorged and used to the
material comforts common to western civilization.

The Yeomanry however represented the last
vestige for armed-resistance. Their exemptions from prohibited weaponry remained
a thorn in the Ministry’s side. The Home Fleet, making up most of the navy, was
deployed far from British shores keeping the oil-lanes clear. The British Army
was now at a quarter-strength and would never be allowed the prestige and power
it once commanded. The remaining high-ranking officers in the army were nearly
all well-groomed to remain loyal to Veitch’s government.

Nomes knew the Yeoman Forces days were
numbered, at least as far as operating outside their area of control. The
arrests had originally been scheduled for after the conference was over and as
the Yeomanry departed from the capital. Now though the bold words saw the
feathers of power ruffled and orders filtered into Nomes’ earpiece.

None of the Yeomanry noticed the approaching
danger due to the way the hallway was offset from the main stage-area. Then
someone in the crowd shouted out and it was all bedlam. First a junior Commissioner
waved an arrest warrant at the Yeomanry and spoke in their peculiar
legal-language before his attack-enforcers rushed at them. They wielded asp batons
and hoped for a quick take-down but the Yeomanry were not servile citizens to
kowtow before brainwashed, power-lusting men.

Naked steel showed in their hands, giving
the enforcers pause for a moment. Then a shot rang out from the balcony
overlooking the stage and a flurry of fresh gunfire noisily followed. The
Prime-Speaker and his cronies were hurriedly spirited away at the first gunshot
into waiting VIP cars as the killing started.

Yeoman went down rapidly as smart uniforms
became crisscrossed with bloody holes. The group of Enforcer snipers spared
none of the Yeomanry save for the high-ranking major. From their excellent
vantage point they were careful to avoid their own being shot.

As they lay dead, dying or wounded Nomes
grinned slightly. The act would send a bloody message to Colonel Seymour. There
would be no trade-zone and the New Europeans were only the beginning of wave
upon wave of foreigners to be unleashed. The Yeomanry could hold out for only
so long. If they acted violently against border jumpers they’d be facing a
United Nations task force. Slowly Albion would fall and the British Isles would
be forever changed, remodelled and controlled by the elites. Commissioner
Roberts and his kindred would be overseas in safe havens ruling by proxy. The
useful idiots and more senior overseers, protected by well-paid guards and
police would carry out their bidding. The workforce, just clever enough to work
in mostly menial jobs and too dumb to question anything would enable the
perfect populace for them to rule over. Nomes was like a machine and the
predictive calculations were a certainty.

Three enforcers lay dead though despite
their armor along with four others that were wounded. There were screams and
panic from some in the room but the cameras rolled on. The Ministry had made
its response and now the Yeomanry were bleeding.

Chapter
11

The
Colonels

The aftermath of
the news from London sent the Yeomanry Colonels incandescent with rage. Officers
were killed or imprisoned, all supposedly while attending the ancient
proclamation. An age-old rite that had, until now, had always been sacrosanct
from interference. That Major Matthews and the others were reservist Yeomanry
mattered not a jot. They were like family to the tightly-knit warrior-class.

Within an hour of the news
breaking nearly all of the other Colonels had assembled with their bodyguard at
The Estates. Colonel Seymour waited for them to enter the council chambers.
After leaving their men outside they entered to take their seats, although some
remained standing. His seniority and wisdom was respected, he was a legend from
the dark days of the coup and subsequent war. Yet even he struggled to keep a
cool head while his blood churned. Seymour resembled a grim demi-god brooding
at injustice. A distant genocidal rage swam through his blood, but with
excellent discipline he calmed his fire from becoming realized.

“Don’t wait on me brothers,
speak your thoughts.” Seymour rubbed his throbbing temple as the other Colonels
now spoke.

“We should have occupied and
sacked London years ago when we had the chance,” Colonel Baden snarled. He was
an officer with a strong Geordie accent, hailing from Newcastle’s fringes.

“It’s cold-blooded murder
brothers,” Sandford shook his head in disbelief. “The Enforcers are acting like
thugs for the government, just like before the coup. We must strike back.”

“Tyranny once again lashes out at
us!” cried Jeffrey Hawes. “Alex! Let us call out the reserve, march on the
capital with our regulars, arrest the entire Ministry and their Enforcer
lackeys!”

Seymour said nothing but watched
the others speak their mind.

“Aye, then put them against a
wall for summary execution? That’s what our ancestors would do,” added another.

“If we even mobilize the reserve
we risk sanctions!” cautioned Sandford. “Then there’s the risk of war with the
regular garrisons and the U.N.”

“Let’s have the damned war and
be done with it I say!” Bladen spat. “We’ve been treading on eggshells for
rotten and scheming politicians for too long!”

“We’ve already had one war to
win us our Albion Geordie. I’m not keen to be in another and lose it,” Sandford
countered.

“Aye, we’ve no full recognition
by the UN or NATO either,” Colonel Dougie Donaldson countered. “We’re
considered a rogue state by most of Europe and a quarter of an island is not a
full country. A full island would mean stronger sovereignity.”

“A full island takeover is
insanity, you want those bloated cities to become Albion Dougie?” Colonel
Seymour said masterfully.

“Aye, well—” he hesitated.

“The main reason we have
territory from Scotland down to Derbyshire is because beyond that we risk
over-extending. We’d end up becoming bogged down managing high-population areas,
much of it having people who hate us and that produce very little. We’ve enough
watching to do as it is. Having to play at city politics and policing would do
us no favors.”

“Alex is right, just look at
what happened to Rhodesia, if we hand over power back to the politicians we’d
be back to square one all over again.”

“We have to do something though Alex,
we can’t just let them kill our folk for nothing and get away with it,” Bladen
said. “We don’t have to try taking southern England, just sack and retaliate.
If they kill ten, we kill a hundred. Desolate the bastards!”

“That’s risking civil war,”
Sandford cautioned causing Bladen to gasp in frustration.

“If we don’t do something, our
reservists could easily take matters into their own hands Sandy,” Colonel
Fairclough sighed. “Just before leaving my county I heard talk of my reservists
wanting vengeance. The nearest town or village over the border could see murder
Alex and I don’t think I could hold them back.”

This was not a cause for concern
for them directly. Yet since the independence of Albion their reservists were
well armed and capable. Also a majority of Sandford’s men were based at the
border and likely to take high casualties in a sudden conflict.

“Very well, they’ll be vengeance
for this,” Seymour said coldly. “But no warfare or civilian reprisals! First of
all we safeguard things! To that end we fully seal our borders. Anyone not of European
blood and Albionic allegiance are persona non grata. Those already inside our borders
that fall outside ethnicity of our folk are to be issued visas or be expelled
as necessary. They treat us like second-class people for slaughter and gulaging?
We’ll do the same with them, without being excessive. The British Ambassador is
to be under house arrest until Roger is released.”

“This could turn into a border
war,” Colonel Adrian Lysander said speculatively.

“That’s a risk worth taking, we
have the stomach for such a fight, they don’t. If it means a no-man’s land
between our border and theirs so be it. Better to keep the peace here than
bloodshed in its place.”

They all took a vote and the
measure passed almost unanimously. Colonel Bladen had argued unsuccessfully for
taking things an extra step via a punitive strike instead, hence he made up the
solitary opposition vote. Bladen understood the necessity though and all the
officers left the chambers in a cohesive mood for what was ahead.

Outside the hundred and forty
men of each Colonel’s detachment listened as their colonels spoke of the agreed-upon
response. The measure was well-received, Albion would go into lock-down and
expulsion of suspected enemy-persons would take place until further notice.
Within an hour the borders were sealed at the roadways and the ambassador was
detained. While he complained and protested at first, the gravity soon dawned
on him of the Yeomanry’s own ambassador being in much worse conditions. Where
the British official was left under guard at his residence, Major Matthews was confined
to a prison cell.

Colonel Seymour retired to his
private chambers where he poured himself a large measure of whiskey from the
decanter. Times had changed during his fifty-eight years of life. He’d been a
young officer back during the coup that rocked the country to the core. The
treasonous government and their enablers were dealt with but it took the
continuation war to finally break the deadlock. That war finally gave them an
independent nation they could rule within England. Even back in those heady
days when the Parliament had begrudgingly given royal ascent to their realm he
had known it was tentative. After ten short years the threat of crippling
sanctions from Europe and beyond reduced their anchor-status in parliament.

A deadlock was now a certainty
and Albion needed breathing space. He’d seen the news-censored footage of the
Pegasus Massacre and knew it was biased against his Yeomanry. Without a
truthful media the new generation of youth seemed set to be virulently
anti-nationalist and prefer welfare dependence than service to a nation.

The old colonel knew it would
take one last stroke to win their true independence once and for all. Yet he
dreaded the risk and bloodshed such a thing ultimately required. What some
liked to call his ‘Free Radicals’ were the wild cards that could sway things. For
a military man like him they were an unpredictable, asymmetrical element, yet
something he would often prefer compared to a known entity. The strange man
from abroad named Kallan Gearson and the shadowy Deep Eye Units had great
potential. Yet it was Yeoman Weyland and the information he was safeguarding
that could be the greatest of all.