London, 1840.
Winter had finally loosened its grip. The ice upon the Thames had long since broken, and although the skies remained the customary grey of the season, the whole city throbbed with tense, almost breathless anticipation.
The docks were choked with people—far more, some remarked, than when a fleet had sailed to war a century before.
Every newspaper, from the austere Times to the spirited Daily Mirror, had emblazoned the same triumphant headline:
"The Hero of the Empire—His Highness Prince Arthur Lionheart—Returns in Glory!"
For months, Arthur Lionheart and his expeditionary fleet had dominated conversation in parlours and taverns across Britain.
The Times, in its meticulous manner, described how the HMS Queen of Vengeance, with its awe-inspiring broadsides, had reduced the proud Fortress of Humen to rubble within the hour—how the campaign's swiftness, minimal casualties, and disciplined conduct had silenced even those Members of Parliament who had once opposed the war. Many now praised the Prince's "military economy" as the very model of modern strategy.
The Daily Mirror, guided by Dickens's pen, wrote with fervour of the Prince's innovations—tinned meat, portable rations, and citrus compendia—that had preserved the health and spirits of the expedition. It printed touching interviews with soldiers' families who spoke of how Arthur's generosity meant they no longer feared for the welfare of their husbands and sons.
Then came the news from India—the astonishing account of the Afghan salvation—and Prince Arthur's fame ascended beyond all earthly measure.
"A miracle of rescue!"
"Balloons and diplomacy to bewilder an entire country!"
"Central Asia secured with scarcely a loss!"
Many whispered that even Odysseus—cunning hero of ancient Greece—would have bowed to the youthful Prince Consort's brilliance.
And now, this figure of legend—this inventor, strategist, miracle-maker, and beloved consort—was returning at last.
How could the people not be delirious with excitement?
Buckingham Palace
Queen Victoria had not slept a moment.
She rose before dawn, and her maids dressed her in more than a dozen different gowns, yet none satisfied her. One dress seemed too pale; another not quite radiant enough.
"No—no, that will not do either!" she exclaimed, gazing into the mirror with the anxious expectancy of a young girl awaiting her sweetheart. "Bring me the star-blue gown—the one Arthur designed for me!"
Lady Lehzen, watching her young mistress flutter with barely restrained delight, could not help but smile. The world saw Victoria as solemn and resolute—but before him she was simply a woman eager for the praise of the man she adored.
At last, clad in the magnificent gown sprinkled with tiny diamonds like starlight, Victoria cradled little Princess Vicky—now a lively one-year-old—and boarded the royal train bound for Plymouth.
She would welcome her husband with her own hands.
Her hero.
When the imposing silhouette of the HMS Queen of Vengeance emerged upon the grey horizon, the docks erupted in thunderous cheers.
"They're here!"
"Look—look! The Queen of Vengeance! Our Iron Rampart!"
Escorted by a fleet of warships and followed by countless civilian vessels, the great ironclad glided into the harbour like a monarch returning from conquest.
Bands played, cannons boomed, and flags snapped in the sea wind.
High upon the deck stood Arthur Lionheart in the deep-blue uniform of the Royal Chief Military Adviser, a title earned through unmatched success. He gazed at the sea of faces, at the banners waving in wild celebration.
And then—he saw her.
Victoria stood atop the viewing platform, the star-blue gown shimmering, their little daughter in her arms. Tears glimmered in the Queen's eyes as she waved to him, radiant with love.
For a man who had spent months wading through cold calculations and harsh campaigns, the sight struck like warm sunlight to the heart.
He was home.
The gangway lowered.
Escorted by the Commander-in-Chief and surrounded by generals, Arthur descended with composed dignity.
He did not first acknowledge the Prime Minister or the ministers awaiting him.
Instead, he walked straight through the crowd, unhesitating, toward the young woman whose gaze had never left him.
Husband and wife met again after a year.
Victoria, seeing the faint bronze upon his skin, the calm depth in his eyes, could no longer restrain herself. She placed the child into Lehzen's arms and rushed forward, casting royal decorum to the wind.
"Arthur!"
She threw herself into him, holding him as though she meant to melt into his very being.
"I've returned, my Queen," Arthur murmured, drawing her close. The scent of flowers in her hair—a fragrance that had haunted his lonely nights—washed over him.
"My love," he whispered against her ear, voice rough with emotion, "forgive me—I'm later than I promised. I had to settle a few matters in India and Afghanistan on the way. You… you're not angry, are you?"
"How could I be?" she breathed, cupping his cheek with tender fingers. Her eyes shone with boundless pride. "My husband wins honour and peace for the Empire. As his wife, how could I feel anything but admiration? I would wait a lifetime for you, Arthur… what are a few months more?"
A hush fell over the entire harbour.
Ministers, soldiers, common folk—everyone watched silently, smiling, as their young Queen and her Prince Consort embraced and kissed without a trace of shame in front of all England.
At last they parted.
"Papa…"
A soft, curious voice sounded nearby.
Arthur looked down to see little Princess Vicky, barely a year and a half old, gazing up at him with wide blue eyes—tiny hands stretched toward him.
His heart melted entirely.
He swept her into his arms and kissed her rosy cheek.
"My little lady… do you still remember me?"
Vicky giggled, pressing her drooling face against his uniform, entirely content.
Artists sketched the scene at once; journalists scribbled furiously. Within hours, the image of the reunited family spread across London—a tender seal upon the triumphant homecoming of the Empire's heroes.
Buckingham Palace, That Night
Arthur Lionheart declined all banquets and celebrations.
He had returned not merely to be applauded—but to fight his final and most formidable battle.
From Calcutta he had brought a weighty dossier—incriminating evidence enough to ruin the entire East India Company—and his own handwritten Illustrated Treatise on Maritime Realms.
Accompanied by Victoria, he summoned Prime Minister Lord Melbourne and the principal members of the Cabinet for an urgent nocturnal council.
His campaigns abroad were complete.
Now his last and greatest struggle—here in London—was about to begin.
A reckoning was coming.
A cleansing that would forever reshape the political and economic order of the British Empire.
And Arthur Lionheart was ready to strike at the ancient, decaying giant—the East India Company—that had for so long festered at the Empire's heart.