London, England

November 1780

"Your Majesty, a word with you?"

The clerk stepped forward into the dimly lit throne room, where a solitary figure paced about in silence. The man stood expressionless, gazing out the window as a column of Regulars, his Regulars, paraded in review, their scarlet coats crisply pressed and their buckles and firelocks gleaming in the setting sun. They were King's men, loyal to him and to him alone. His army, whose might would soon be summoned in full force to break the backs of the insolent rebellion in America.

It would be a short war, the King mused quietly to himself. The rabble's "Continental Army," as they appeared to call themselves, were a battered collection of insolent farmers, brigands, and ill-tempered upstarts, no match at all for the pride of the King's Army. His army, he thought again. The army Parliament's voice had willed into creation, the army that, as far as the King knew, held no equal on this earth. The Regulars were a wall of steel and flesh and fire, an unstoppable bulwark of imperial pride and stalwart collective effort, whose prowess on the field could hardly be considered inferior to a ragged band of starving rebels. So, what if Burgoyne had blundered his way into disaster at Saratoga? So, what if the rumors of a French alliance with the American upstarts were appearing more real than previously anticipated? The King felt no concern at these whispers. He was George Frederick, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, master and commander of legions of disciplined soldiers and supreme lord of the greatest naval power in the world. No, he thought. The rebellion may have won the upper hand for now, but when the newest reinforcements arrived in the Colonies things would surely change. Clinton and Cornwallis would gladly put a stop to this wretched revolt as soon as their forces received proper support.

Providing he could persuade Parliament to give him the funding for another army.

Parliament, ha! The word stank of politicking and corruption, and he detested it. The posh, over-dressed mockeries of politicians, with their powdered wigs and their false accents and their talks of peace and dissent and other such things. How dare they deny him the right to win his war! How dare some of them whisper of cries for peace with the traitorous rebellion, even as the King's southern armies shattered the upstarts and broke the back of Washington's own command? How could any of them speak of public opinion turning against the war being fought in the far-distant Colonies, even as Clinton's northern forces bore down upon the demoralized Americans and stole away their hope? He was the King! His authority was meant to be the divine right of providence, his very word absolute! How dare his own staff and advisors question his authority?

He shook his head, pacing to and fro across the tiles of his chamber, hands clasped tightly behind him while he glanced about him and pondered his queries. He would have victory, that much was certain. Damn Parliament, damn the doubters and the peasants who found reason to question their monarch's will. He didn't need them. He still had enough support to raise another force and the will to make the rebels pay in blood for their treachery and oppression.

If they did not fear him now, Washington and his Continentals would soon face their monarch's wrath, a wrath so cold and unforgiving that none would survive the repercussions of his anger.

"Your Majesty…" The clerk's voice interrupted the King's scheming. He turned sharply upon his heel, seething with rage.

"Damn your hide, Bill, I told you not to interrupt me again!" He rolled his eyes. "What the Devil gives you the right to enter your King's chambers without requesting an audience?"

"This concerns the war in America, my liege. Benedict Arnold has betrayed the rebel cause. They refused him what he was owed for his services, so in retaliation he has declared loyalty to the Crown and denounced Washington."

The King's mouth twitched, and he stopped pacing. He turned his head sharply in Bill's direction, a look of astonishment growing wider on his face.

"I'm sorry, did I hear you correctly? Did you just inform me that Benedict Arnold, the same chap who trounced Johnny Burgoyne at Saratoga… has decided to join me?"

"That is correct, Your Majesty. Although the turncoat failed to deliver plans of the rebel fortifications at West Point over to Sir Henry Clinton, he has in fact been granted a commission in the King's—er—your Army as a Brigadier General and has been authorized to rouse a detachment of Tories to help conduct your war in America."

For a moment, it appeared to Bill as though the King would collapse to the ground. He waivered on his feet unsteadily, looking first to the left, then to the right, then up into the sky, then all around him as if in a confused daze. He started to stumble backwards, and Bill reached out to him, intending to help him keep his feet.

"Keep off me, you fool!" The King snapped, shooting an uncompromising glare towards Bill who staggered away looking rather perplexed. For a moment, silence lingered over the entire chamber, and nothing stirred. Then at length, after all had settled for a time, the King of England began to dance a merry jig, clapping his hands and grinning like a schoolboy.

"Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!" he cried, extending his hands towards the heavens. "We shall have victory, oh yes we shall! Arnold is ours now! Arnold, the scourge of Saratoga, is now fighting for me! For me, Bill, can you imagine it?" He burst into a glorious song, dashing around his secretary:

"Yankee Doodle went to town

For to buy a firelock

To thus depose the British Crown

And name instead John Hancock!

But he trusted another man

Without much compensation

And now the Yankee is Doodled

While his friend serves the King's nation!

Now Benny Arnold went to war

With old Yankee Doodle

But when the Yank refused to pay

Old Arnold flip'd his noodle!

Now he comes to London town,

Dress'd in gold and scarlet

And when he meets the traitor 'gain

I'll let him hang the varlet!

He fought against us at Valcour

He took Ticonderoga

Now Arnold shall lead Washington

Straight to his Saratoga!

Arnold is the kind of man

That King's-men all delight in

For when old George refused to pay

He thus refused their fightin'!

So sing now, all Britannia's sons

Confound the rebel traitors

And may all Heav'n now reward

Bold Arnold: none is greater!

Death to the Sons of Liberty

May treason's words confound them

And may bold Benedict Arnold

E'ermore presently hound them!"