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Dancing King

By Glynn Young

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First Week: Friday
Joshua
Standing at the door to the loft, I watched him take a final look at what had been his home for almost two years. Their home. His family’s home. First, he and Jim, and then Sarah, then Jason, and finally Hank, the baby. Most likely, he would never see it again. And he knew that. He’d asked to do a final check, which all of us knew was unnecessary. Including him.
He nodded to the Black Watch guardsman and the FBI agent standing at the doorway. The four of us moved to the elevator and then to the street, where the family and security waited in the four black SUVs. A crowd of onlookers stood watching, breaking into applause as he left the building. He smiled and waved. The crowd looked friendly, and included many of his neighbors in the loft building. But he didn’t know for certain. He’d likely never know for certain, with any crowd. Not anymore. Not since The Violence of October. Not since he almost died from gunshot wounds.
To be the target of violence is to be robbed of an innocence. The world becomes a different place. A very different place.
He was still learning how to live in that world.
I’d spent seven weeks with this family, and most of those seven with him. My life would never be the same. Everything had changed; everything I believed, understood, and accepted no longer made any sense. And it was because of this 27-year-old man, this young man who had not yet recovered from his wounds, the injuries that had almost killed him.
Michael Kent-Hughes stepped into the waiting SUV, joining his wife Sarah and their son, six-week-old Henry, nicknamed Hank. I sat in the jump seat facing them. In the first vehicle ahead of us sat 17-year-old Jason and 9-year-old Jim Kent-Hughes, Michael and Sarah’s two adopted sons. Black Watch guardsmen and FBI agents were grouped in all four vehicles, but most of them in the third vehicle behind us, already trained to respond if something happened on the way to the airport. Our luggage was in the fourth.
Sarah helped him buckle his seat belt. His left arm remained in a sling, the pain dulled but not eliminated by prescribed meds. Michael was trying to wean himself off the meds, but it was difficult, and his efforts generally a failure. He had begun physical therapy a few hours after awakening in the hospital. His most serious wound, near the heart, the wound he had almost died from on the operating table, was healing better than expected. The second and less serious wound, at the junction of his left shoulder and arm, was not. The pain was usually low level but constant; sometimes, it was intense. Therapy would resume in London. More surgery was possible.
Too many times over the past six weeks I’d seen him check his watch, not to see the time, but to see if enough time had elapsed to take another pain pill. Once or twice I had seen him take two at once. Double the dose.
“They say pain is really a blessing,” Michael had told me one morning, in the middle of a discussion on finances. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s a blessing I’d gladly forego.” Then he apologized for complaining. “It just hurts sometimes, Joshua. Well, it hurts all the time, just sometimes more than others.” Then he’d laughed. “I still managed to get in a complaint, didn’t I?”
The four vehicles pulled away from the front of the loft building, across the plaza from St. Anselm’s Church near downtown San Francisco, Michael’s first assigned parish and now also his last. As we left the plaza, Michael saw Father John Stevens and the church secretary Eileen waving from the steps. Michael lowered the tinted window and waved back.
“Sir,” said the FBI agent sitting behind us, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to leave the window up.”
Michael nodded. “Sorry.” He raised the window.
Life had changed forever for Father Michael, former assistant pastor at St. Anselm’s.
Life would be radically different for King Michael I of Great Britain, his wife, Queen Sarah, the baby Hank, now the designated prince and heir to the throne, and their two adopted sons.
“I’m going to miss Father John,” said Sarah.
Michael nodded.
How did I come to be sitting with Britain’s new royal family, in a car headed for the San Francisco airport and a flight to London?
My name is Josh Gittings. I’m almost 42. I studied political science and then law at the University of Birmingham. I am special assistant to Prime Minister Peter Bolting. My duties are unspecified, but it’s generally known, especially by me, that I am the PM’s chief political operative, and have been since his first election to Parliament 17 years ago, on the Labour ticket.
When The Violence erupted in Britain, the PM had dispatched me with Ian and Iris McLaren, Michael’s parents, or guardians, to be legally precise, the couple who’d raised him, to San Francisco to help Sarah Kent-Hughes. Her husband was possibly dying on the operating table, and I had my instructions: what to do if Michael survived the surgery, and what to do if he did not.

This young woman, this young queen with a new baby sitting across from me in the SUV, had been the pivotal player. The PM knew that. I knew that. And I had had to insert myself into her fear, confusion and shock. I didn’t expect to be inserted into the middle of her faith. And her husband’s faith.
My friends call me the PM’s special assistant. The British news media call me Svengali. My enemies call me Rasputin. All three have some element of truth.
Until this trip to San Francisco. Then I came to know Michael Kent-Hughes.
Before, I’d had no real friends, except for Michael’s older brother Henry Kent, and then it was primarily a professional friendship. Then I came to know Michael Kent-Hughes.
Five days earlier, Michael had preached his last sermon as assistant pastor of St. Anselm’s, broadcast by the BBC and heard live by more than 250 million people in Britain and North America alone. Surprising everyone, and saying nothing about The Violence or his new position as king, Michael had preached a sermon that had touched more hearts than was imaginable.
I know; it had touched mine. But it was only part of what had been happening to me since I’d arrived in San Francisco seven weeks ago.
A lifetime ago.
Before, nothing touched me. I had invisible armor no one could pierce. It’s what made me invaluable to the PM. I could sit and negotiate a deal with Labour backbenchers who’d just knifed the PM and me publicly in The Guardian, and not think twice about it. Teflon Man, said The Times of London.
Nothing touched me until Sarah Kent-Hughes spoke at that press conference at the hospital. I heard her words about Britain, and my heart broke. Her words were about what mattered, and what we were losing. And it was her words that had stopped The Violence.
Traffic was light for a post-rush-hour Friday morning. We reached San Francisco Airport and arrived at the international terminal. Our British Airways flight would be leaving in two hours. Michael had insisted on flying BA to Britain. “It’s the country’s flagship,” he’d said. The PM and the President of the United States had both tried to convince him to fly on a private plane for security, and the President even offered Air Force One. Michael had politely declined.
“We can’t hide behind security walls,” he’d told me.
We undertook the planning and preparations for the flight with the utmost secrecy, including a full security screening of every scheduled passenger, the flight crew and the ground crews in both San Francisco and London, including the gate agents. An entire crew of FBI agents in the United States and M1-5 and M1-6 operatives in Britain had been involved; all last-minute reservations were scrutinized as well. We knew everyone who would be on that plane. And a special crew of Transportation Safety Administration agents was examining every single piece of checked baggage.
And with good reason. The man and woman who had been the assigned assassins of Michael and Sarah had themselves been murdered in their hospital beds. The third assassin had escaped, his identity undetermined even though a video camera outside the Kent-Hughes loft building had captured a clear picture of him. Hospital security cameras had filmed him in the wing at the time the two had been killed. Michael had even seen him in a hospital hallway.
More than 17 people in Britain and the United States had been arrested in the attempt to kill Michael and his family, including a leading imam of the largest mosque in North America, located in New Jersey, and the imam of the largest mosque in Britain. More than 2000 people had died in Britain during The Violence, the first few days after Britain’s royal family and Henry Kent, Duke of Kent and first cousin to the king, had been murdered in a conspiracy to bring jihad to Great Britain.
Michael, Henry’s younger and politically unknown brother, had become king as a result. In fact, many were surprised to have learned that the new king was the same young man who had led Britain’s cycling team at the Athens Olympics to win three gold medals. The same man who’d become an international hero when an earthquake and rock slide killed seven in the cycling peloton and injured dozens more.
And now Michael and his family were traveling to Britain, preparing for six months of official mourning and the coronation in May. Despite the glare of publicity they’d be living in and were already experiencing, Michael and Sarah both knew they were stepping off into a great unknown, what could easily become a great darkness. It was an open question as to whether The Violence had indeed ended. None of us knew.
Their two adopted sons were the reason Sarah and baby Hank were with us today. They had taken down the woman with a gun in a park near their home, just as she aimed at a very pregnant Sarah.
This was seven weeks ago. It was still frightening.
The fact that the third assassin has passed within inches of Michael, Sarah, and the baby at the hospital told all of us he was not a Muslim radical. If he were, he and they, and countless others, would have died in that hallway. Instead, dressed as a doctor, he nodded at Michael and walked on, making no threatening moves. And then disappeared.
A professional assassin. Professional assassins don’t sacrifice themselves. For anyone or any cause. Someone had hired a professional assassin to kill Michael Kent-Hughes and his family. How he connected to the two dead assassins was unknown.
We waited for boarding in a private room in the BA lounge. Sarah was talking with Jason and Jim, while I sat next to Michael, reviewing the latest news summaries and memos from the PM’s office. Michael was reading the daily government communications packet for the king. He read with a focus and intensity that surprised me. His predecessor had been known for throwing the packet away. Unread.
“Joshua,” he said, looking up from his papers. “I may need a tutor.”
“A tutor?”
He nodded, and then checked his watch. “In UK constitutional law. I studied it in school like we all did but that was some years back. And I certainly didn’t study it with the thought I had to know it to do my future job. You’ve helped tremendously about the workings of Parliament, but I know more about church law than I do anything else. I really need to understand the constitutional history and role of the monarchy.”
“We’ll find someone,” I said, making a note on my tablet.
“And protocol,” he said.
“Protocol?” I asked.
“We don’t have the first clue how the monarchy is supposed to operate,” Sarah said, leaning into the conversation. “It’s not just the legal stuff. Like who sits next to whom at a state dinner. And what are the appropriate clothes for opening Parliament.”
“The palace hasn’t had a protocol officer in years,” I said.
“Do you think,” Michael said, “you could find whomever was in the position last, and give him or her a call? I have visions of making some faux pas and the next thing is someone declares war.”
I laughed as I made another note on my tablet. “I’m sure we can locate someone.”
Michael smiled. “Will you be glad to be getting back to your normal job?” He opened his pill container and shook one tablet into his hand. He reached for his water glass.
I hesitated before answering. “Actually, no.”
“No? Is the job more hectic than what you’ve been doing here?”
I shook my head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt I’m doing something really useful and important, like these past few weeks.”
This time Michael hesitated. “You’ve kept Sarah and me sane, Joshua. We would have been terrified if you hadn’t been here. I know you’re the PM’s official representative, and doing what he’s asked you to do, but you’ve given us more of yourself that you realize, and we owe you a debt we can never repay.”
The lounge loudspeaker announced the first call for boarding our flight to London.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said.
Yes, everything had changed.

On the plane, Michael sat next to Sarah, and I was across the aisle from Michael. We spent a considerable amount of time talking back and forth about the next week, resumes that had come in for his and Sarah’s palace staff positions, and how best to use the next six months of official mourning and limited public appearances. After we’d been airborne for 45 minutes, Sarah handed the baby to me while she and Michael walked through the plane, greeting passengers and thanking them for flying BA.
“I’ve had a thought, Joshua,” Michael said, when they’d finished their tour, “and I’d like to hear your reactions.”
“A thought about?” I asked.
“About the next six months,” he said. “What if I told you I think I should spend part of that time in the pulpit?”
The surprise must have shown on my face, for he laughed out loud. “I can see your first reaction,” he said.
“Well, it’s not something I’ve heard of a king doing,” I said. “Although I have to admit that you’ll be the only king who was first a priest.”
He smiled. “It sounds odd, I know. And I haven’t thought through the logistics and the amount of planning it would take. But I’m thinking of a series of sermons at churches in the areas hardest-hit by The Violence.”
I began to think of all the reasons such a program would be a bad idea, and then I remembered a conversation I’d had early one morning with Father John Stevens at St. Anselm’s Church.
I’d been staying the in church’s small apartment across the plaza from Michael and Sarah’s loft condominium; it afforded both convenience and privacy for the family and for me. Michael had lived there after his arrival in San Francisco and until he bought the condo across the plaza.
Father John had arrived at the church early one morning, and offered me coffee or tea when I encountered him near the church office.
“There are many things about Michael I will miss,” Father John said. “Not the least of which is his sermons.”
“His sermons?” I asked.
“You haven’t heard him,” he said. “He has a plain, straightforward style. There’s a brief introduction, usually a funny story about himself or the family, and then the Scripture reading, followed by an explication of the passage that’s the heart of the sermon. And then he applies it to contemporary life. Like I said, very simple and straightforward.”
I listened closely, because I knew Father John had insights into Michael that I and most others did not.
“But it’s his voice that’s remarkable. He seems rather soft-spoken in everyday conversation, but his voice carries fully in the sanctuary. You can hear him as plainly in the back as the front, even without the microphone. It resonates with humility and sincerity. You hear him speak, and you know he believes what he says, you know you can trust what he says and that he speaks with authority.” He paused. “It’s a gift that very few ministers or speakers have. It’s as if you know God is blessing his words because he is speaking God’s words.”
I reserved judgment on what Father John had told me, until I heard Michael’s final sermon at St. Anselm’s, given just this past Sunday. With that sermon, my last defenses against accepting the truth of Christianity had fallen, leaving me shattered. I knew Michael had sensed something had changed with me, but he would let me talk about it when I was ready.
“So, what would be your message?” I asked Michael, as the flight attendants began to bring the first meal they would be serving.
“Forgiveness. Healing. Repentance. How to bind together our churches and our communities. How we go forward.” He paused. “How we can love the Muslim community. How we can reform and rebuild the church.”
“Reform the church?” I asked.
“I believe the major institutional problem is there, Joshua. With the church. It’s become irrelevant to the functioning of British society, and that irrelevance is destroying British society.” He paused. “But the church is, ultimately, only its people, and people’s hearts have to be changed. Britain’s had generations of secularization and minimizing the position of the church, and we have to begin to deal with that, which is not the most welcome of messages in an almost militantly secular society.”
I nodded. “How can I help? Do you need me to reach out to churches? Or do you already have some in mind?”
Michael smiled. “I may appoint you the Royal Encourager. I think I should aim at Anglican churches first, and possibly exclusively. It’s presumptuous enough for me to speak over the church leaders directly to the people of the Church of England, and I’d have to be invited. Keep in mind that most London churches are under the Bishop of London, and not Canterbury directly. The bishop is Alan Mayhew, and we’ll need to make sure he knows and is comfortable with the idea. He’s more conservative than the archbishop, but he does have to mind church politics. As for other churches, well, I’d really be stepping out of bounds to give sermons at non-Anglican denominations.”
“Are you sure? I think I’ve heard you say to be ready for what God might put in front of you. Wait. You put it another way. ‘Ninety percent of faith is just showing up.’ That’s how you said it.”
He looked at me closely. “You and I will need to spend some talking, I think,” he said. “I’d like to hear what’s been happening with you.”
I nodded. “In the meantime, let me look into how we can get an invitation for you to give a sermon or two, and see what happens.”

I tried to sleep, but my body was still on California time. I finally removed my eye shade and elevated my seat, determined to do some work if I couldn’t sleep.
Across the aisle, Michael was awake. He was looking down, clenching and unclenching his left fist. Sarah was asleep next to him, and the baby next to her. I reached across and touched him on his arm.
“Michael? Is it the pain?”
Tears in his eyes, he nodded. “I took a pain pill an hour ago. It’s having no effect.” He rubbed his left shoulder. “I didn’t answer your question truthfully. I took two pain pills an hour ago, and it’s having no effect. Joshua, I think I’m becoming addicted. Maybe I already am.”
“Have you talked with Sarah?”
He shook his head. “She suspects. She’s asked, more than once, if I sticking to the prescribed dose. I haven’t been entirely truthful.”
“What is the medicine, Michael?”
“It’s a generic opioid. It’s one step below morphine. And yes, I checked. It can be prescribed in Britain.”
I looked at Michael’s schedule on my laptop. “You see the orthopedic and the physical therapist on Monday. You need to talk with the doctor about this. Something’s clearly not right if you’re still having severe pain even with the meds.”
He nodded but didn’t respond.
“Promise me you’ll talk with the doctor Monday?”
He smiled. “I promise.” He continued clenching and unclenching his fist.

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