The Cabinet meeting did not so much conclude as collapse—
not with resolution, but with a hush so strained it seemed woven of disbelief.
Arthur Lionheart's cold, immaculate argument—
"I am the principal investor; therefore, I must inspect the use of my capital."
—had struck the elder statesmen like a blow from an iron gauntlet.
There existed no statute, no venerable custom, no dusty parliamentary precedent capable of barring a creditor from safeguarding his own fortune—
even when that fortune amounted to seven hundred thousand pounds and an entire fleet.
Absurd. Unprecedented. Outrageous.
Yet unassailable.
And so the news reached Buckingham Palace before Arthur did.
That evening, when the Prince Consort entered his chambers, he expected the familiar warmth: the soft laughter of his daughter Vicky, the welcoming embrace of his Queen.
Instead he met a silence of almost ceremonial coldness.
Victoria sat alone in the rocking chair by the window, the infant princess asleep in her arms. She neither spoke nor wept; she merely watched the moonlit sky with a stillness more wounding than any accusation. Her lips were tightly pressed, her blue eyes dimmed of their usual fire.
Arthur felt something inside him twist.
The Parliament had been the easy part.
He approached quietly, meaning to place a gentle arm around her shoulders.
«Do not touch me.»
Her voice was soft—
but it carried the chill of a steel blade.
Arthur froze mid-motion.
Slowly, he knelt before her, lifting his gaze to her pale face.
«My love… I should have spoken to you first. I was wrong.»
She did not look at him. She only lowered her gaze to their sleeping daughter, and at last, tears—long withheld—fell silently onto the child's blanket.
"What more must I give you, Arthur?"
Her voice trembled, not with rage but with exhaustion.
«I have given you everything,» she whispered.
«My love, my trust, my crown, my strength… even the treasure of the monarchy. Everything I possess, I have laid in your hands.»
Her breath broke.
«And now you would leave me—leave us—for a distant, perilous land full of disease and war. Did you think of me? Did you think of little Vicky? She cannot even say Papa yet… and you would abandon her before she learns?»
She raised her face at last.
Her tear-filled blue eyes pierced him with a grief that made his chest tighten painfully.
«What if something happens to you? What becomes of our daughter? What becomes of me?»
Her composure shattered.
«I do not care for war, nor glory, nor the boastings of the Empire! I want you! I want my husband safe beside me each night. Is that so unreasonable a wish?»
Arthur felt her words strike deeper than any wound a battlefield could offer.
He had broken something precious—her trust, her sense of safety.
He drew her and their child carefully, almost reverently, into his arms.
«Forgive me, my love… forgive me.»
His voice cracked, his face buried in her hair.
«I have been selfish—thinking only of plans and strategies, forgetting your heart and the needs of our child.»
He held them both tightly, until Victoria's sobs grew softer, dissolving into trembling breaths.
Then, in a ragged whisper:
«Arthur… must you truly go?»
He rested his forehead against hers.
His blue eyes, normally so composed, held both sorrow and immovable resolve.
«Yes.»
He cupped her tear-stained face, speaking with a tenderness that made the words heavier, not lighter.
«Victoria, listen to me. Only by going in person can I seize full command of this expedition. Only then can I guarantee this war ends swiftly and with minimal loss—ours and theirs.»
He brushed away a tear with his thumb.
«This is not a reckless venture. It is… for our home.»
Her breath caught.
He continued, voice low but fervent:
«I need a decisive victory—one that silences the old nobility and anchors my authority within the Army. Only then will the reforms we dream of—telegraph lines, new railways, humane social policies—be possible without obstruction.»
His blue eyes shone with a mixture of idealism and cold political pragmatism.
«I leave so that I may return stronger.
So that no one may ever threaten you or Vicky.
So that our throne stands untouchable.»
Victoria listened, silent, torn between the ache of a wife and the steel of a Queen.
She saw in him not merely ambition, but devotion—
a man fighting for the future they had sworn to build together.
Her heart still hurt fiercely.
But her crown demanded fortitude.
She wiped her tears. When she looked up again, a sovereign's calm flickered back into her eyes.
«How long will you be gone?» Her voice was hoarse, fragile.
Arthur raised his hand solemnly, like one taking an oath.
«I promise you this:
By the time little Vicky can clearly say Papa, I shall return—to you, and to the land that waits for us.»
Victoria pressed her lips together, a final barrier of resistance trembling—
and then breaking.
She understood.
There was nothing left but trust.
The next day, Lord Melbourne and several grave-faced ministers arrived at Buckingham Palace, hoping—desperately—that Her Majesty would forbid the Prince Consort's departure.
They were received in the Throne Room.
Victoria sat tall, regal, her daughter in her arms.
Her expression serene, unyielding.
«Gentlemen,» she said, her voice echoing through the chamber, «you need not persuade me further.»
«The rain will fall, and my husband will depart for his duty. Let him go.»
A collective gasp filled the room, but she continued:
«The Prince Consort fights for the interests of this Empire.
He dedicates his wealth and his wisdom to our shared glory.»
«His decision is mine.»
«I, the Queen of the United Kingdom, shall be his staunchest supporter.»
She lowered her head and kissed Vicky's rosy cheek.
And with that simple gesture, all the seasoned politicians present understood:
On this matter, the young sovereign pair stood united—completely, irrevocably.
Nothing on earth would halt the departure of the Queen's Vengeance nor the man who commanded her.