The dense fog rose quietly from the fields on the north bank of the Thames River, wrapping the morning breeze into heavy white cotton that intertwined with the branches, horse manes, and reins.
The sky in England always arrives early in June; though dawn had not appeared, there was already a faint whiteness in the sky.
On the main road from Windsor Castle to London, in front of the Hammer Smith police outpost, a troop of Royal Cavalry stood silently on either side of the road, cloaked, with swords hanging at their waists, and their horses exhaling hot air, turning into misty illusions in the fog.
Sir Arthur Hastings stood at the forefront.
He was not riding a horse, but stood alone under the chestnut tree wet with morning dew, his gloved hands clasped behind him.
Behind him, his entirely black horse restless stomped its hooves, as if it too sensed the extraordinary nature of the upcoming journey.
Suddenly, a faint sound of wheels and hooves came from the front.
