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Author and Novelist Glynn Young

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A Novel about a Crisis

October 3, 2018 By Glynn Young 1 Comment

Dancing Prophet A Novel about a Crisis

More than once, my wife has pointed out that my 2017 novel Dancing King and my new novel Dancing Prophet tend to pick on the Anglican Church, and specifically the Church of England.

It’s a fair point; the major tension in Dancing King is between the king, Michael Kent-Hughes, and the Church of England hierarchy at Lambeth Palace. Michael is speaking at churches for the need for reformation, and then makes a blow-out speech at a conference of bishops. Lambeth strikes back, however, employing all sorts of stratagems and accusations.

In Dancing Prophet, scandal erupts. What looks contained to one church is actually broader and deeper, involving churches and dioceses across the country and well beyond. The introductory sentence reads this way: “The match that ignited the reformation of the Church of England was lit by three teenagers.”

The heart of this story was written more than a decade ago, and then rewritten (many times) over the years. In one sense I did pick on the Church of England – the idea of the scandal in Dancing Prophet is actually inspired by the real institutional crisis the Catholic Church has been struggling with. In the story, Michael will realize that the situation is beyond reformation; the church as he’s known it is gone.

Dancing Prophet Dancing PriestDancing Prophet is fiction, but like all fiction, it can’t help but reflect the times in which it’s written. When the history of our times comes to be written, it may be title (or subtitled) “The Age of Institutional Crisis.” Our government structures aren’t working; the sorry spectacle of a U.S. Senator questioning a candidate for the Supreme Court about the references to body noises in his high school yearbook isn’t even funny as much as it is tragic.

Our language has become the language of extremes, suggesting a mutual contempt that’s hard for me to fathom. I’ve stopped reading the editorial and op-ed pages of my hometown newspaper; there’s virtually nothing in it that one could call a reasoned argument. Lots of polemics, to be sure; lots of barely disguised contempt for any opinion, belief, or value other than what the editorial and op-ed writers agree with. Snark rules.

The church universal is in crisis as well. Mainline Protestant denominations in the United States are in membership free fall. Evangelical megachurches are afflicted by their leaders abusing women and elder boards refusing to believe it, until significant damage is done. The Catholic Church is being torn apart. This looks like a winnowing of the church to me, a winnowing that will leave a smaller and perhaps stronger church.

This isn’t the time for reasoned arguments. This is the time for rule by the mob. I watch the news coverage, and I see the mob racing through the halls of Congress, screaming at senators and congressman. This is rhetorical violence approaching physical violence.

Some have compared this to the declining days of the Roman Empire; it’s closer, I think, to the declining days of the Roman Republic.

Dancing ProphetThis is the world partially depicted in Dancing Prophet. Michael Kent-Hughes has been thrust into a position he never expected and never sought. He is not only dealing with ecclesiastical failure; he is also dealing with politicians increasingly reluctant to take responsibility and a London governing authority that ceases to work due to political disfunction.

Early in the story, two of the leading characters in Dancing Prophet are discussing how Michael came to occupy his position. Here was Michael, with no military background, no royal upbringing, and in fact nothing to recommend him for the position of king. He was a Church of England priest, and a young one at that, without any hierarchal experience.

And here’s what one of the characters says:

“God picks the man needed for the job at hand. And isn’t it fascinating that Michael had essentially been exiled to the hinterlands as a child, reared completely away from anything even remotely royal, felt called into the priesthood when he was relatively young, and was then sent to the outer edges of the Anglican world, away from the center and all that the center implied. God was preparing Michael, as surely as you and I are sitting here. And He was less interested in military and palace experience and far more interested in raising up a man after His own heart.”

And that’s the hope of Dancing Prophet, that even in the darkest times, God is raising up men and women after His own heart.

Top photograph by Micah Williams via Unsplash, and lower photograph by Oliver Sjostrom, also via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A Soldier Dreams: A Story

September 5, 2018 By Glynn Young 2 Comments

A soldier dreams Dancing Prophet

He remembered the light, then the roaring. A silence followed, succeeded by screams.

Then nothing.

People gathered around him, doing things, barking instructions. He tasted blood. The pain came suddenly, a blinding, screaming pain tearing him in half. He heard the screaming again.

“Morphine! Now!” someone shouted. And he knew the screaming was his own.

He opened his eyes and saw white. And light.

A man’s voice. “We’ve got this, Peter. Soon you’ll be dreaming.”

 

He saw the café. They had stopped for a coffee. It was safe, in the green zone. They had stopped there for coffee dozens of times. He liked the coffee that was so strong it could keep him wired for hours.

He saw the girl. Dark hair and eyes. She was perhaps six. Someone at the table handed her a candy bar, a treat that carried with them for the children. She smiled. And pulled at her belt.

 

He could feel the vibration and knew it was a plane. He could smell leather and metal, and something antiseptic. He heard beeping sounds. Through a haze he saw a drip bag. A face.

“You’re going home, Peter. It won’t be long.”

His lips felt cracked with dryness, and he moved his dry tongue over them. Then fingers on his lips, smoothing ointment. Mandy will be glad.

Sleep.

 

“Joanie will be there with me,” Mandy said. “She’s my coach, but she’ll have a camera and take lots of pictures. When the baby’s born, of course. You won’t want to see the actual birth and the mess.”

“But I do,” Peter said, “I want to see it all. I want to be there.” He didn’t tell her that his captain was moving heaven and earth to try to get him leave for the birth. He knew how the army worked, and he might get it, or he might not. He didn’t want to disappoint her. Or himself.

She was due in three weeks.

 

He woke with the touchdown on the runway. He was fully awake. He saw a nurse come by and smile.

“We’ve landed,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “I felt it.” He could see portable military beds. Some men were standing. Bandaged. A man was the right side of his face bandaged. “Are we going to hospital?”

“The Royal Chelsea,” the nurse said. “They have great facilities there.”

He knew. It was where they took they badly injured, flown from the airbase in Basra to the big RAF base near Norfolk, and then driven to London by ambulance.

He saw her inject something in the tube from the drip bag.

Sleep.

 

Two men in white coats were talking. He could hear their voices but not make out the words.

Sleep again.

 

He was lying on the floor of the café. Something was on his chest. Someone’s leg. And the wet stickiness. He pushed at the leg. It rolled to the floor.

Mandy. He heard her voice.

“Mandy?”

He felt a hand on his cheek.

“Yes, Pete, it’s me.”

“Have we had the baby yet?” he said.

“Not yet. Just under three weeks.” He heard the stifled sob.

“I take it I’m in a bad way. No one’s said.”

The sobbing was no longer stifled.

A nurse doing something, fiddling with the IV tube.

Darkness.

 

The voices pulled him from a deep sleep with no dreams. He didn’t recognize them. A man and a woman. The man was being deferential, and Pete wasn’t sure why.

Someone sat next to his bed. He opened his eyes.

“The open eyes are a common feature,” a man’s voice said. “He’s still asleep.”

He stared at the women’s face. She was beautiful. Her brown eyes had flecks of gold.

“Are you sure he’s asleep?” she said.

“Quite sure, ma’am. He’ll likely not regain consciousness.”

He felt her touch his cheek. Feeling her fingers on his skin, he could immediately tell he needed a shave. She didn’t seem to mind.

She stood and, leaning over him, she kissed him on his forehead.

“It will be all right,” the woman whispered. “She’ll be okay.”

Before slipping back into sleep, he realized she was right. And that she was an American. Were all angels American?

 

Escorted by the hospital administrator, Sarah Kent-Hughes walked down the hall to a waiting room. A very pregnant young women, tears staining her cheeks, looked up. Stunned, she struggled to stand.

“Your majesty—” she said.

“No,” Sarah said, “sit. I know what late-term pregnancy feels like.” She sat next to the young woman and took her hand.

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Sarah said, “but it will be all right. It doesn’t mean it won’t be hard, but it will be all right.”

 

The soldier was dreaming of angels with American accnts.

 

Top photograph by Des via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A Speechwriter for a King: A Story

August 28, 2018 By Glynn Young 1 Comment

Dancing Prophet Speechwriter

Jonathan Crowe stood on the sidewalk along Buckingham Palace Road, staring at the security entrance for the palace. He glanced at his watch. He was 10 minutes early for his interview with Jay Lanham, head of communications for Buckingham Palace who, at only 30, was already becoming legendary in UK public relations and media circles. Lanham was the communications man for King Michael and had successfully fended off a series of almost brutal public attacks on the king.

Lanham, and the king, were looking for a speechwriter.

Jonathan was 26 and a reporter at The Guardian. He was five foot ten, with closely cropped hair, a slight beard, and a medium-dark complexion. The only person he had ever written a speech for was himself, and that was for presentations he had made at university. But Lanham had seen Jonathan’s newspaper stories, and had read dozens of them, in fact. During the initial phone interview, Jonathan had been impressed with just how well Lanham had read his stories. Lanham also knew a considerable amount of Jonathan’s background, including his family’s Jamaican heritage, where his parents worked, that he still lived with his parents (a reporter’s salary alone wasn’t sufficient for almost anything in London), and that he attended St. Paul’s Church in Brixton.

Lanham had both reassured him and slightly alarmed him when he said that palace security had already done background checks.

Buckingham Palace Dancing Prophet
Buckingham Palace

“It’s standard procedure, Jonathan,” Lanham had said on the phone. “But it’s also more than that. This speechwriting job reports to me, but you’re going to have ongoing access to the king. He takes his words seriously, and he doesn’t want bureaucratic layers between him and his speechwriter. In fact, he’s made that a condition of the job. We have to make sure that all of his staff pass security checks.”

Jonathan had already had a videoconference interview with Josh Gittings, the king’s chief of staff. Gittings was also legendary, but it was of a different kind than Lanham. He’d served for years as the prime minister’s hatchet man and chief political operative, until he was dispatched to San Francisco by the PM to help Michael Kent-Hughes and his family during The Violence. And Gittings seemed to have had a fundamental change of heart – some called it a religious conversion – while in California.

Jonathan shuddered at his memories of that weekend the previous October. The royal family had been assassinated, and what amounted to open warfare between Muslim extremists and British nationalists had turned London and the country into a war zone. Trying to cover the story, Jonathan had been chased and shot at by a Muslim group and almost caught by a skinhead group looking to attack anyone they thought might be a Muslim.

Somehow, palace security had learned about that as well.

He had dressed carefully for the interview, keeping in mind that he would eventually interview with the king as well. He was wearing a blue suit, white shirt with a muted red tie, and tan shoes (he had polished them just that morning.) He hadn’t said anything to his parents or his sister, or anyone else, about the interview. At breakfast, his mother had noticed he looked a bit spiffier than usual but kept her words to how nice he looked. She hadn’t asked any questions, but he could see she suspected more was afoot than just another day at The Guardian.

He’d tell them if things worked out. He didn’t expect to be offered the job. He believed he was likely the diversity candidate. Michael might be new to the monarchy and being a royal, but this was still old-boys network Britain. Still, he knew that they’d gone to significant lengths to learn about his background.

It was time. He walked inside the security station, gave his name, and presented his identification. The woman security officer checked a list, nodded, and smiled. A second officer assisted him in providing a basket for his watch, wallet, and whatever was in his pockets. His portfolio was sent through x-ray, as was Jonathan himself. Everything went smoothly.

The security officer walked him through a hallway. He expected to be escorted to Lanham’s office, but Lanham suddenly appeared through a doorway, smiling and holding his hand out to shake Jonathan’s.

“It’s good to meet you, Jonathan,” Lanham said. “And call me Jay. My office is close; we’re actually in the administrative wing now. Do you want a coffee or tea, or water?”

“Black coffee would be fine,” Jonathan said.

They entered an area containing a suite of several offices. Lanham introduced him to several communication staffers in the area and then walked to the small kitchen included in the suite. He poured the coffee for Jonathan and fixed a tea for himself.

St. Matthew's Church Brixton Dancing Prophet
St. Matthew’s Church Brixton

Lanham’s office was spacious and comfortable but not opulent. One wall included several screens of television news channels, newsfeeds for twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, and a scrolling list of news stories from Reuter’s, Bloomberg, the Associated Press, and several other wire services. One screen contained a scrolling list of stories from all the major UK newspapers, including The Guardian.

“How is your time today?” Lanham said.

“It’s fine,” Jonathan said. “I’d holiday time and some comp time stored up, so I took the day off.”

“No other appointments?” Lanham said.

Jonathan shook his head. “No. “

“Well, that’s great, then,” Lanham said. “I hope you can stay for lunch. His Majesty asked me to check to see if you might be available.”

Jonathan felt his heart pound. “That should be fine.”

“It will be just the two of you,” Lanham said. “I have a luncheon and the king usually likes to have some time alone with people he’s interviewing.” He smiled. “Don’t let this throw you. The king likes to move quickly. And he’s fairly certain that we’ve found the right candidate.” Lanham sipped his tea. “Based on our background and reference checks, and our phone conversations, both Josh Gittings and I have recommended you to the king as the best candidate. Josh and I have interviewed others, but you’re the only candidate to talk with the king. We’re that convinced. I’m that convinced.”

“I’m surprised,” Jonathan said. “I didn’t expect this. I thought my meeting with you today was a step in the process.”

“It is,” Lanham said, “but as far as we’re concerned, it’s close to a final step.”

“Can I ask an impertinent question?” Jonathan said.

Lanham laughed. “Absolutely.”

“Am I here because of my Jamaican heritage?”

Lanham shook his head. “No, you’re not. We’re not asking you to join the staff here at the palace because you’re a black man. Let me explain how we did this.”

Lanham sipped his tea. “We never advertised this position. We put feelers out to people who might know good candidates for speechwriting. A lot of names came back, and we screened them carefully. We put out more feelers and received more names. We narrowed the list to three, and then we went about collecting samples of their writing – articles, blog posts, newspaper stories, speeches, whatever we could find. We then gave each a designated letter, A, B, and C, and we removed any and all personal references. We gave the three sample sets to the king. He saw no resumes or anything else that would identify the writers. This was about as blind a test as we could devise. What he knew was that all three were well qualified; it was my responsibility to make sure of that.

“When he came back to us, it was your writing set he singled out. And what he told me was that all three were technically and professionally excellent, but it was the samples for candidate A he felt the most comfortable with. And more than that, it was candidate A’s writing that demonstrated someone writing from his heart.”

For a moment, Jonathan said nothing. Then he spoke. “You’re doing a terrible job of convincing me not to accept this position.”

Lanham laughed. “To continue. After he picked the samples of candidate A, then we showed him your resume. He read it, and he personally called one of your references.”

“The king called one of my references?” Jonathan said.

Buckingham Palace Terrace
The terrace at the rear of Buckingham Palace

Lanham nodded. “He called your vicar at St. Matthew’s. And he was circumspect. He didn’t say you were being considered for one of the top communications positions at the palace. He asked the vicar what he could tell him about this young man who had come to his attention. I was there when he made the call. And so you know, your vicar said nothing about your race. He talked about your service at the church and two ministries you were involved in, tutoring of at-risk children and the choir. When he’d hung up, the king looked at me and said, “’See, I was right about him writing from his heart.’

“And that, Jonathan, is how you came here today,” Lanham said. He then summarized Jonathan’s starting salary and benefits. “Your office will be next door here to mine. We have normal 9 to 5 working hours, but there are times for various emergencies, crises, and things that suddenly happen. You should expect to see a lot of the king, sometimes with me and sometimes on your own. And I know this is all rather overwhelmingly, so we don’t expect an immediate answer. But you are officially being offered the position of speechwriter to King Michael.”

Lanham stood, and Jonathan followed suit. “It’s time for you to see the king,” he said. “If you have questions, we can talk on the way or you can call me afterward. I’ll be off site when you finish lunch, and a security officer will see you out.”

They walked down a hallway toward the back of the palace.

“The king is currently in the library,” Lanham said, “His office is still be renovated; the construction manager discovered an old broken pipe and some rotted wood, and Mr. Epworth, the master of the House, has been having to jump through hoops to get approval from the landmarks commission to make the repairs. Have you been to the palace before?”

“No, I haven’t,” Jonathan said.

“The library is actually two rooms across from each other, underneath the Music Room. The area gives out on to the terrace, and I believe that’s where the king said he’d be for lunch.”

They turned a corner and continued to the library area, where Lanham stopped.

One of the front gates of Buckingham Palace
One of the front gates of Buckingham Palace

He handed Jonathan an envelope. “This is the official offer,” Lanham said. “If you find the terms acceptable and decide to accept, simply sign one copy and return it to me.” He turned and continued walking. Jonathan followed him up a short flight of steps and through the door to the terrace.

It was a brilliant June day. The sky was blue without even a hint of a cloud.

“By the way,” Jonathan said, “I accept the position, assuming the king approves.”

“Good,” said Lanham, smiling. “I’m very pleased. And I think King Michael will be very pleased as well. I’ll let you tell him.”

Jonathan could see a man sitting at a table set for lunch. His back was to them and he was reading something.

“Sir?” said Lanham.

Michael turned and stood up, a huge smile on his face.

“You’re Jonathan,” the king said, extending his hand. “I am so pleased to meet you.”

Jonathan shook the king’s hand and remembered to bow.

Later, Jonathan was again one the sidewalk on Buckingham Palace Road. He stood for a minute next to the gate, out of the way of the pedestrians and the lines waiting to buy tickets for the palace tours, beginning at the end of June.

He knew he had just spent the most remarkable three hours of his young professional life. He and the king of Great Britain had just finished talking and developing a rough scheme for speeches. He would need to give notice at The Guardian today; he would start working at Buckingham Palace in two weeks.

He thought about his vicar, who had said such kind things. He thought about working for one of the top communication operatives in the country. He thought about the man he would be working with and writing speeches for.

And he thought about the looks on his papa’s and mama’s face when he told them about his new job. His father the janitor. His mother the worker at the dry cleaners. He thought about what they had sacrificed for him and his sister. He thought about the position of trust he’d been given, and, there at the fence, he said a prayer of praise and thanksgiving.

This story is about one of the characters in my upcoming novel, Dancing Prophet, to be published this fall.

Top photograph by Ian Baldwin via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Dancing King Stories: Writing as an Act of Faith

August 6, 2018 By Glynn Young Leave a Comment

Southwark Cathedral

We writers would all love to be Stephen King, James Patterson, J.K. Rowlings, and other successful people who turn everything to gold simply by their touch. For most of us, writing is difficult, frustrating, depressing, discouraging, and lacking any kind of return even remotely like the effort we put into our work. We pour ourselves into what we write, often for a very long time, and once it sees the light of day, the world yawns and moves on to books that are badly written, semi- (or totally) pornographic, or so lacking in anything of value that we wonder why we continue to do what we do.

Writing can be a slog. For most of us, writing is a slog.

A scene inDancing King unintentionally speaks to writers, what we write, our platforms (or lack thereof), and the whole question of “why do we write.” I wasn’t thinking of writers when I wrote it, but I believe it applies to what we writers try to do.

It’s two days before Christmas. Michael Kent-Hughes flies from Scotland, where he’s on holiday with his family, to London. He’s giving the first in a series of sermons on the need to reform the church, and he’s at Southwark Cathedral. It’s an old church, dating back to early Anglo-Saxon times, but it’s a church that has managed to flourish. (Southwark is an overlooked gem for tourists, likely overshadowed by its much larger and better-known brethren like Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral.)

Dancing KingMichael gives the sermon. He has friends and staffers visiting among the 400 people in the congregation – his chief of staff, his communications leader, and his security people. People are taken aback, first by the fact of the king giving the regular Sunday sermon, and second, by what he says and how he says it. Jay Lanham, Michael’s communications man, is narrating what is happening. And he learns that Michael is speaking with an authority that seems to come from outside him. Lanham’s there in his communications capacity; he’s what might be called a “cultural Christian.” He can recall the order of the worship service from his childhood, but he finds himself overwhelmed by the truth he hears in the sermon.

Afterward, Michael treats the staff people in attendance to lunch at a nearby pub. His chief of staff, Josh Gittings, asks him if he has any expectations as to how many people might attend the Bible study the next evening being organized by the church, which Michael had just encouraged the congregation to attend.

“I don’t know, Joshua,” Michael says. “And the number doesn’t matter. God can do wonders with one or two just as easily as 400.”

The response will actually be something a bit more than one or two; Michael’s sermon will spark something of a revival in the diocese. But Michael knows that this is less about what he says and how many may or may not respond, and more about what God puts in people’s hearts. Michael is a vessel; he’s not what pours into and out of the vessel.

That is the “how” and the “why” of what I write. Do I want thousands and tens of thousands to buy my books? Sure. But if that was the goal, I would not be writing the kinds of books I write.

And while the number may matter to a publisher, the number of readers doesn’t, in the end, matter. Wonders can be worked with one or two as with 400, or 10,000. We write to tell a story; what happens to that story is someone else’s business.

Top photograph: Southwark Cathedral, with the office building known as “The Shard” in the background.

Dancing King Stories: Sarah Kent-Hughes

July 2, 2018 By Glynn Young 2 Comments

Sarah Kent Hughes Dancing King

The story of Michael Kent and Sarah Hughes begins in Dancing Priest, the first novel in the Dancing Priest series. And while other narratives will stream through the series, the love story of Michael and Sarah remains the core.

They meet at the University of Edinburgh. She’s an art student at the University of Southern California, studying a year abroad with her brother David Hughes. She and Michael share a class in medieval church history; he sees her sitting a few rows away and is instantly smitten. He introduces himself after the class, she thinks she’s been hit on for the fourth time that day; and she dismisses him with an Anglo-Saxon profanity, believing his statement about studying for the priesthood to be a come-on line.

But they both get passed that, and at a school festival, dance what comes to be known as the “last tango in Edinburgh.” And it’s during that dance that the dancing priest of the title is born.

Dancing Priest is the story of how Michael and Sarah find each other, lose each other, and then find each other again. In the process, they are both growing and maturing, Sarah moving steadily toward the faith that divided her from Michael and Michael learning that the priesthood of study and preparation may not be the same as the priesthood meeting life on the streets.

In A Light Shining, the second novel in the series, Sarah almost becomes the main character. She and Michael are married, living in San Francisco, and soon expecting their first child. And then comes The Violence, a planned and coordinated terrorist attack on Britain’s royal family, Michael’s brother Henry, and Michael and Sarah. The attack on a very pregnant Sarah is thwarted by their two adopted son, Jason and Jim, but Michael almost dies. Sarah goes through childbirth while Michael is in surgery. And while he’s recovering and still unconscious, she assumes responsibilities far beyond the typical new young mother.

Dancing KingIn Dancing King, the third in the Dancing Priest series, Sarah becomes one of the narrators of the story – the arrival in London, the upheavals with palace staff, the creation of a new staff, and the growing attacks by people determined to drive Michael and Sarah from the throne.

Sarah is self-confident and assured, but she is also shy. She’s also slightly terrified at dealing with all of her new responsibilities. Physically, she’s about 5 feet 7, golden-brown hair, brown eyes, with high cheekbones. Michael thinks she’s absolutely dazzling. Her favorites clothes to wear are jeans and a man’s dress shirt (which is what she was wearing when she and Michael first met).

She also is an artist, with an artist’s soul and temperament. Sarah had been on her way to establishing a successful career in painting when she met Michael again and married him. She will continue to paint, in addition to all of her new responsibilities. Her painting style is Realism; people often think her paintings are photographs.

At the very beginning of Dancing King, as the family is leaving their life in San Francisco and flying to London, the man who will become Michael’s chief of staff is sitting on a jump seat across from Michael and Sarah in the car to the airport. Reflecting on the events detailed in A Light Shining, what he says about Sarah and her husband is the key theme of the book:

“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.”

Photograph by Andrei Lazarev via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Dancing King Stories: Master of the Household

June 25, 2018 By Glynn Young 1 Comment

DK Stories Master of the Household

In Dancing King, Michael Kent-Hughes has a recurring problem – finding the right people for his key palace staff positions.

A wide array of people is considered for the communications job; Michael doesn’t find the right person he’s looking for until a resume arrives unsolicited. A similar problem occurs with his chief of staff position – he finds capable people, but the chemistry doesn’t seem right. What’s happened there is that Michael has been consciously and unconsciously comparing them all to Josh Gittings, the prime minister’s chief aide sent to help Michael and his wife Sarah in San Francisco. That problem is solved when Gittings directly applies for the job.

A third key position is an operating job – Master of the Household at the palace, or as Michael shortens it, “Master of the House.” Today, the position is responsible for all of the operational positions for all of the Royal Households in the nation. In addition to Buckingham Palace, that includes Windsor Castle, Kensington Palace, other palaces and residences, and the staffs charged with managing the activities of many of the members of the royal family.

The position has a long history – it first officially appeared in 1603, when James I ascended the throne after the death of Queen Elizabeth. It was generally held by aristocrats and / or friends of the monarch until early in the reign of Queen Victoria, when it took a decided military turn. Since that time, the position has been usually held by a ranking military officer – lieutenant colonels, brigadiers, generals, air marshals, and lords of the Admiralty.

Dancing KingMichael and Josh Gittings are looking for someone to run the day-to-day operational activities of Buckingham Palace. These include the kitchens, the gardening staff, the housekeeping staff, and more – all of the people responsible for functioning the of palace. They do find one qualified applicant, but he decides not to take the job.

On a cold winter’s day, Michael and Gittings are driven to the Mayfair flat of Michael’s dead brother Henry, murdered during The Violence of the previous fall, the same upheaval that led to Michael being shot and almost dying in San Francisco. At Henry’s flat, they have two objectives: assess what needs to be done with the furnishings (and art collection) before it’s sold and consider the position of Henry’s butler or “man.” Michael feels an obligation to make sure the man who ran Henry’s household is taken care of in some way.

They find Brent Epworth, a former lieutenant in the British Army. And he has a story.

Epworth had planned a military career. An only child, married but with no children of his own yet, he had been stationed in Iraq, a member of the British and allied forces involved in an ongoing if somewhat stalemated war. A roadside mine kills almost all of the unit he leads; Epworth himself loses most of his left leg and is eventually honorably discharged. His wife, unable to deal with his injuries, divorces him, and his life slides into a downward spiral of alcohol and drugs.

Henry had found him recovering after detox in a military hospital in Chelsea and offered him a job of running his household affairs in London and the country estate in Kent if he could stay free of addictions. Epworth accepted the offer and his life turned around.

Impressed by the man’s obvious competence and his demeanor, Michael offers Epworth the Master of the House position on the spot. Within weeks, Epworth proves his value and the wisdom of Michael’s intuitive if impulsive offer.

In a sense, the military flavor of the Master of the Household position continues its long history.

Top photograph by Jeslyn Chanchaleune via Unsplash. Used with permission.

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Meet the Man

An award-winning speechwriter and communications professional, Glynn Young is the author of three novels and the non-fiction book Poetry at Work.

 

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