The Yeoman: Crying Albion Series - Book 1 (7 page)

“Seriousness?” Valerie wanted to lambast
Gladstone, but her father’s words stopped her short.

“Do you want me to explain how many college
rules you broke? Perhaps the Race Relations Act that the Ministry Policeman
could have charged you with should be spelled out?”

“I don’t know what the Race Relations Act
even is?”

“Ah, of course, it was before you were even
born I think. In layperson’s terms, anyone who offends another person on the
grounds of ethnicity, race or background has broken the law. The offending person
need
not
have intended to cause
offense if the offended party is distressed with what has taken place.”

Valerie was speechless, she had no idea such
a law existed and now that she did, she wondered why on earth it was applying
to her. It was bad enough that her father had been slaughtered by a mob in
Iraq, now Iraq seemed to be upon her and Omar was its manifested ringleader.

“You’re a very lucky lady, because this is
your first transgression you won’t be expelled from the college, as long as you
apologize that is.”

“Transgression? I didn’t know I even did
anything wrong? Omar insulted
Nikky
and I. Isn’t that
against the College Code under bullying?”

“Your racist ways—”

“I’m not racist—”

“Your
indirectly
racist ways and lack of cultural understanding top the list and take
precedence. I can see the tolerance classes aren’t doing any good.”

Valerie knew the man was as dangerous
opponent and changed tack.

“I will apologize to them publicly. May I
please leave?”

“In a moment, I’ll inform the officer
outside.”

In the corridor
Ministry Constable
Jeneston
waited earnestly. He was
slightly disappointed the blonde would not face a harsher punishment. After
going over the details on the radio his Sergeant was unsure about going through
with it. He doubted they could get a race-related charge to stick with the
Crown Prosecution Service, not enough for a good chance of conviction anyway.
The college was technically not a public place either and her sentencing could
result in negative publicity. ‘Not in the public interest’ was the likely
result. Yet
Jeneston
was ready with a new line of
investigation.

The short man left his office and smiled
awkwardly.

“She agrees to apologize,” the Head Tutor
said. He was starting to be relieved and his fears of a public relations
nightmare began to drift away.

“This girl and her friend; are they both politically
active?”

“I don’t think so, they both study hard,
Miss
Beauford’s
father fought and died overseas, in
the oil wars I think. I recall she did an essay about it.”

“Was he a Yeoman?”

“This was before the Colonels War so I don’t
think so.”

“I see,” the policeman said slowly.

“Wait, her mother commutes to Albion I
think. She’s training the Yeoman girls over there. Medical type stuff, not a combatant.
” The policeman’s eyes widened and Gladstone knew he’d over-talked and
attempted to gloss over it.

“It’s just while there’s a shortfall,
nothing political you understand. Just as a volunteer.”

“Go on…” the Ministry officer prompted. His
notebook was already out again like a flash from the inside of the constable’s
jacket. The spineless man spoke on and the pencil began scribbling.

“We’ll be in touch later Mr Gladstone,” the
constable said after nearly a minute of note-taking. “Don’t go far from the
city,” he added with a wiry smile.

Chapter
5

Polemic

At the
prearranged hour the two forces met in secret under the flag of truce. It was
mid-afternoon at an ancient railway bridge built by the Victorians in a
previous age. That age was when the island of Great Britain had practically
ruled the world and the harmony of village, town and city were in equilibrium.
Now though the island was spiritually and physically torn by oppression,
division and decadence.

On one side was a small convoy
of military Land Rover Defenders that the Albion forces crewed. The green and
black paint on the vehicles went well with the dozen soldiers nearby. They kept
watch for danger nearby, knowing full well that on the other side of the river were
the Ministry who did the same as they. The London-based organ of state
apparatus represented the very nadir to Albion and the Yeomanry. Only three
years ago a border clash had resulted in two Ministry men slain to the cost of
a wounded Yeoman. There had been an emergency meeting between the Ministry
leadership and the Yeomanry to defuse tension then. An escalation was avoided,
but now it was set to begin anew.

Some of the Albion troops
carried long-barreled L1A5 battle-rifles but most held Janson bullpup carbines.
Both weapons were chambered in the unique, hard-hitting caliber of 7mm. This
was optimal for the British Isles in general, while it packed a punch it was
controllable by most soldiers when fired in bursts or even full-auto. The
bullpup excelled at close-quarter fighting in the streets and lanes of English
towns. The battle-rifle was more for rural engagements, its longer barrel
allowing a more accurate shot. A few Yeoman privately imported light-caliber
5.56mm M4 carbines but these were few and far between.

On the opposite side of the
bridge a Rolls Royce and two Mercedes vans that comprised the Commissioner’s
bodyguard. In contrast to the well-supplied Yeomanry the Ministry troops relied
on ageing stocks of imported HK MP5s and pistols. A single Ministry riflemen
had an L1A1 battle-rifle but even from afar it looked like it was a museum
piece. No doubt looted from a military base during the Ministry Restoration two
years ago. Unlike many of the rural and town-born Yeomanry the ministry bodyguard
in civilian clothes were mostly city-types. About half were thuggishly presented
with tattoos and swarthy demeanors, a visible sign of how changed Britain’s
urban centers had become. To the undisciplined and untrained they were young,
angry and intimidating indeed. The other half were more professional, clean-cut
and urban Caucasians. They made up a kind of upper-caste of the Ministry’s
Close-Protection branch. Yet they were older, some in their late fifties, a
clear sign of the demographic tilt towards multiracial blood in Britain.

It was not the case with the
Yeomanry troopers of Albion though, they were late teenagers and young lads in
their twenties and thirties. All were of Briton stock, that unique fusion of
Germanic Anglo-Saxon, tempered here and there with a touch of Celtic
vibrance
. A violent cohesion seemed to be ever present in
them, it lurked below the surface, not quite noticeable unless under times of
hardship and necessity. It was something not seen since the days of the Wars of
the Roses. They were neither militia, nor regular soldiers like the
remenants
of the British Army, nor were they, for the most
part, an actual elite fighting force. The Yeomanry occupied a niche that gave
them the benefits of both a conventional and asymmetrical unit. It was one of
the Colonel’s master-strokes, but also one that had complex drawbacks unique to
the times they lived. Originally about half of the Yeomanry were made up of
regular soldiers from front-line units. The other half were volunteers that were
trained by the experienced Yeoman soldiers. Of the former a good many had been
Colonels, Majors and Captains that had answered the call from the earliest
days, and made possible the impossible.

Colonel Alexander Seymour had
originally been part of the Grenadier Guards and was the elected leader of the
Yeomanry. He was the only full colonel unlike the others senior leaders of the
Yeomanry who were
Lieutenant
Colonels. Yet in the spirit of brotherhood they all regarded the other as his
equal and Colonel was used casually whether a Lt Colonel or of full-rank. The
Yeoman officer viewed his older half-brother with an icy stare. High Commissioner
Roberts, chief of the Land Ministry smiled back distantly with the air of
superiority about him.

Both adversaries were of a
similar age. Yet Seymour and his Yeomanry wore camouflage while Roberts and his
bodyguard were in smart, plain clothes. The gulf of military and civilian was
as clear as the fragmented nature of the country. Day-to-day the island muddled
on but across the jaggedly-diagonal border of Albion and England the seismic
shift was stark. On the one side the cultural decline and crumbling decay was
relentless, while on the other it was a slippery ascent urged on by their
Yeomanry overlords. Underneath the surface though the tensions remained like a
compound explosive. The detonator was in place, but no ignition or spark had
been made yet.

The Colonel was the fitter of
the two, a lifetime of military service and no medical issues reflected this.
He was tall, muscular and had an aggressive prowess about him. Born and raised
in the country he’d risen as an officer, first in junior positions during
peace, then by waging coup for power and finally outright war to win Albion for
his people. Silver-hair that had once been neither fair nor dark showed on his
eyebrows, his head being covered by the brown beret of the Yeoman. Dark blue
eyes that were weary but deep viewed the arrayed forces before him. The
majority of the Ministry Bodyguard opposing them were likely former police
force. Yet a handful looked to be ex-army, possibly special forces. His own
Yeoman were evenly matched and both sides knew to engage in a firefight would
cost them both dearly. The United Nations and NATO had given a final warning,
an ultimatum against any that transgressed. It was that any more warfare would
lead to a taskforce being launched against the island from overseas. As it was
there was an observer platoon from a neutral country that roamed both
territories unannounced. They acted as heralds and occasionally mediators. For
this meeting though, it was strictly between the island elites, the U.N observers
being well-occupied elsewhere with the
Heysham
incident.

Commissioner Roberts finished
his hip-flask of brandy before sending his security chief forwards. Roberts had
been mostly office-bound and was largely an urban creature which reflected in
his pudgy frame. He wore no hat which showed graying hair with a slight
bald-patch. In his hooded, gray eyes was a glare of inner-cunning and covert supremacy.
They viewed the Yeomanry with a mixture of disdain and contempt. Roberts was
older, cunning and cynical from a lifetime of scheming and plotting. Put
together in different circumstances the two would make a devastating team. As
it was they almost seem to reflect a devastation of relations instead; the
taking of power from government by Seymour’s coup first, then the civil war
second.

Roberts’ security chief walked
over to meet Seymour’s counterpart. Both were unarmed and showed this was so.
Then, switching places with one another the Yeoman walked over to await the Commissioner
while the security chief did the same for the Colonel.

The two leaders closed the
distance to both their seconds. Neither was armed, as per the agreement and the
bodyguards did their duty. Both men showed open hands first then jackets before
turning around completely. To be sure the Colonel and Commissioner were
frisked.

“No weapons,” the Yeoman Sergeant
confirmed in a clear Cumbrian voice.

“Not armed,” echoed a Ministry
fellow, his Bristol tone contrasting both groups.

The two leaders walked forwards beyond
both sentinels until they were only five yards apart. Both stopped and for the
first time in years they were face to face again.

“Greetings brother,” the Colonel
said, opening the dialogue with a positive note.

“You’re no brother of mine,” the
Commissioner said quickly.

“Oh? Do we not share the same
father?”

“That bond ended when you
launched your war on this country.”

Seymour ignored the jibe. “Albion
is not yours now, but I called this meeting to avoid future bloodshed.”

“You are ready to annex Albion
then?”

“Never, but you put a stop to
the Welcoming Bill and I’ll talk with my Colonels about setting up a
trade-zone.”

“A trade-zone?”

“Yes, it can be a buffer-area
where your people, no matter what their race, calling or creed can trade and
exchange with my people of Albion.”

“Why on earth should I try and do
that?”

“Are you serious? Food supplies
are barely coping, your economy is on the brink, you can’t keep printing money
which isn’t backed by anything. Your nation, the once great Britain I salvaged
Albion from, isn’t producing anything. You import most of your energy and ninety
percent of your food. The oil and gas industry is paralyzed thanks to
environmentalist lobbying and massive taxes to pay for your welfare state. Need
I go on?”

“You are an economist now as
well as a tyrant?” the Commissioner remarked dryly, unbothered by the plight of
Britain.

“I have a good team of advisors,
many of whom left Britain to join Albion. They all say the same thing, with limited
cooperation we’ll be stronger, but this invasion of so-called New Europeans has
to stop! Then we can work on getting this island back from the brink.”

“The brink is perhaps what will
bring people together, that way they’ll need the safety I can provide more than
ever.”