To Save a King, page 2
“Blech.” Gus. Right on cue. Every time.
“The prince finally found love and proposed marriage, asking her to be his wife, his princess and future queen. To this very day, they are remembered for their deep love and affection. The girl who became a princess, then a queen, gave herself to charity and good works, to kindness and truth, and the kingdom prospered.” Mum patted each of them on the back. “The end. Now, bedtime. I’m running late. Molly?”
Mum kissed each son on the head before their nanny shuffled them off to bed—all while Gus proclaimed the story’s stupidity and that his dragon would burn up that swan and its feathers.
John, however, even at his young age, believed all the more in the white feather and true love.
Lying in bed, staring through the dark at the faint light coming in from under the door, he understood he was the prince in the old Lauchten tale. Bound by a writ, a law, to marry for the crown, the House of Blue, and a thousand years of Lauchtenland history.
Marriage was a must for every crown royal in the House of Blue. However, love was not.
Chapter One
Perrigwynn Palace
Port Fressa, Lauchtenland
John
Whoever had penned his love story had a sordid sense of happily ever after. Even worse, the author had left him trapped between the inciting incident of Act One and the noble quest of Act Two.
Nearly a year after his wife’s death, Crown Prince John of the House of Blue remained trapped by grief. It was impossible to go backward, but unimaginable to move forward—however much he’d begun to desire it.
Death. Sorrow. Pain. He wearied of those black clouds hovering over him. Surely sunshine would break through sooner or later. Yet if and when it did, he’d resent it. Of that he was sure.
Until then, he remained under the protective umbrella of his royal duties as a future king, a working member of Lauchtenland’s “Family,” the House of Blue, smiling for the public and doing good, all the while with a tornado twisting inside.
On this particular Friday morning the queen had summoned him to her office. His secretary, Briggs, scheduled the appointment without notes so the purpose of the meeting remained a mystery.
More than likely she just wanted to visit with her son and heir. They’d chat about life—okay, John’s life—while sipping tea and savoring puffs. She called this sort of gathering “checking on things.”
Leaving his apartment, John made his way down the Queen’s Corridor toward Mum’s office, passing through swaths of June sunlight and under portraits of his ancestors—monarchs who’d walked where he now trod. Literally and figuratively, mind you.
He paused under the twenty-foot painting of King Louis V—the royal Blue who inspired the famous—or was it infamous?—marriage writ by which all crown heirs of the House of Blue were bound.
You see, Louis enjoyed his bachelor life and found no need for a wife and child. He preferred his independence, his friendships, his dalliances, his sports, and books. No pleading with him to settle down, marry, and produce an heir came to fruition. So his father, King Louis IV, gave way to drastic measures and manufactured a way to march his son down the aisle.
John always suspected he gleaned his idea from the Family fairy tale, The Swan’s Feather.
And so, it was decreed that if Crown Prince Louis desired to take his place as future king—thus taking the oath of office via the investiture ceremony—then he must marry.
However—and there’s always a however—if he chose to carry on as a freewheeling bachelor, there would be no oath, no crown, no throne, no kingdom. He’d risk the monarchy and a constitutional crisis. And no Blue royal had ever risked either.
Marriage also, ole Louis IV claimed, ensured the posterity of the House of Blue throne. One of the oldest in Europe, fought for and won by the sweat and blood of their Blue ancestors and the men and women of the kingdom, the Family and legacy must continue.
This was all fine and dandy for the nineteenth century, but John lived in the twenty-first, for crying out loud. The writ was archaic and oppressive. As far as he was concerned, the time had arrived to nullify the old ways and methods and live in the new.
Some traditions were worthy of a modern nod, and others were not. Include the writ in the latter.
Besides, he’d found love. Once. He’d fulfilled his duty. Should he be punished because it was so cruelly taken away?
Surely the old writ didn’t apply to him now. Though he’d not yet taken his sworn oath to serve and protect the people of Lauchtenland and be their king. Ah, it was a conundrum.
Meanwhile, as he mulled over the past and present in the red-carpeted hallway, the queen waited. He must get on.
Down the way, John greeted her secretary, Mason, who escorted him into her office.
“What’s Hamish Fickle’s scheme? Do you know?” Mum stood in front of the telly, sipping a cup of tea. “Ever since he was elected to parliament, he’s a regular on the talk shows. You’d think he’d prefer to be a presenter instead of an MP.”
John glanced at the large screen suspended above the fireplace. When Mum wasn’t watching, she’d press a button and the telly would disappear magically into the ceiling.
“What’s he going on about?” Hamish sat on the set of LTV-1’s new mid-morning hit, Tuppence Corbyn & Friends.
“Your investiture and the plight of the Midlands clothing business.”
“What?” John fixed a cup of tea and stirred in a drop of cream. “Turn it up.”
Mum aimed the remote and Hamish Fickle’s voice boomed into the room.
“One can’t help but wonder why the crown prince hasn’t taken his oath. Why hasn’t the queen changed the writ? It’s insane to expect a modern man to marry on demand. Is he unfit in some way? Has his wife’s death taken the gusto from him?”
Tuppence, with her long dark hair and vivid blue eyes, gasped. “I think the prince is just fine. He’s recovering. He was devastated when Princess Holland died.”
“Of course, but he’s more than an ordinary man,” Hamish said, smiling as if he were choosing a word or number on a game show. “He lives not only for himself but for us. Should, and God forbid, anything happen to the queen and our crown prince has not sworn his oath, we could face political disaster.”
“Goodness, you sound like a conspiracy theorist, Hamish.”
The man chuckled and leaned toward his host. What a fraud. “I’m saying our monarchy, our very constitution and government, exists through the crown. Should misfortune happen to our beloved sovereign”—he lifted his palm as if to prevent any dastardly scheme from the gods—“and the crown prince has not been invested as our next king, we would literally be without a government, thus ensuring panic and chaos.”
This bit of news appeared to rattle Tuppence, who flipped through her blue notecards, stammering, trying to move on. “Um, well, goodness, we, we… Clothes. Yes, we wanted to talk about the, the…the new clothing…manufacturer that has come into the Midlands. Hamish, as an MP, what do you think of our lovely boutique garment district? Will this large international company destroy our small businesses?”
“I do believe so, yes.”
“He’s a wealth of good news, isn’t he?” John said, sipping his tea, listening as Hamish pontificated about Reingard Industries.
“This new manufacturer has killed the garment industry everywhere they’ve planted a new facility. They promise high wages but soon learn the locals do not know their equipment and thus cannot produce fast enough, so they lay everyone off and bring in their own people. Meanwhile, the manufacturers have suffered with costly production and reduced demand. The question I’m asking is how did this happen? On top of the fact, our own Eloise Ltd. was set to buy the land that Reingard Industries now sits on. And for half the price, I might add. It’s rather a mystery, Tupp.”
“He does raise valid questions,” John said with no shortage of reluctance.
“I hope you get to the bottom of this soon, Hamish.” Tuppence Corbyn seemed even more disturbed than before. “My own grandmother used to have a shop on Ribbon Avenue in the Midlands. It’s gone now and so are the lovely clothes she used to make.” Then, as if flipping a switched, she gathered herself and smiled for the camera. “More with MP Hamish Fickle after this word from Port Fressa Insurance.”
John snatched up the remote and powered off the television. He felt some odd satisfaction as it, along with Hamish Fickle, disappeared into the ceiling.
“He’s elected from one of County Northton’s smallest regions. Midland Garden,” he said. “Why is he on a national talk show? Shouldn’t he be tending the needs of those who elected him?”
“He’s charming,” Mum said, moving to the cart to refresh her tea. “The shows love him. Though I find him a rather small man with a big mouth.” She sat in her chair with a glance up at John. “How are you?”
“I know you didn’t ask me here to inquire of my health.” He sat in the chair opposite his mother. The one where she met with the prime minister, opposition opponents, and international leaders.
“Why not? I’m a mother. The welfare of her son is part of the job.” She bit into a cinnamon-coated puff. “I saw LTV-1 has produced a documentary about our dear Holland and—”
“I know.” He rather hoped she’d not bring this up. He’d been avoiding requests for interviews since January.
“Really? You never said. Did you take part? I’m surprised I wasn’t asked.”
“They made many requests but I declined.” The life he’d shared with Holland, however short, was private, his personal treasure, and he’d not allow anyone to peer inside, disturb his memories.
“How’s Briley?” Mum moved on.
“Fair.” Briley, Holland’s beloved horse, had broken his leg in the accident but the bone didn’t heal well. He’d had a second surgery three months ago but still seemed hesitant to bear weight on the leg. “He’s a fighter.”
“Are you sure you’re not keeping that poor creature alive to—”
“Mum, I would never.” The question caused John to flinch. In the dark of night, he’d wondered the same thing. Was he keeping Briley alive because he was the last living thing Holland touched before she died?
“See to it you’re not.” Mum leveled a gaze at him from across the way. John never realized until now the large gap between the queen’s chair and the guest chair.
“The veterinarian and groom are doing a brilliant job of his care. If either hinted at putting him down, I’d not hesitate.” He’d not allow the ole boy to suffer. “So, what is this meeting about? Briggs left no notes. I feel unprepared.”
“Briggs didn’t tell you because I didn’t tell him. This is a personal visit not Family business.”
“Is everything all right?” John angled forward with a bit of trepidation. Mum had seemed rather out of sorts lately. Pale. Retiring early. Her voice and countenance lacked her usual steel.
“Yes, of course. I have several things to share. Private news.” Mum retrieved a bound manuscript from her desk. “Your dear cousin Rachel’s gone off and done a crazy thing.”
Rachel was the daughter of Mum’s sister, Princess Arabella.
“What’s she done now?” And how did it involve him?
“She’s published a book.”
“Oh the horrors.” John flipped through what appeared to be a picture story. “Shall we tie her to the stake? Send her to the tower?”
Last year dear cousin Rachel got caught in a tech company scam that nearly landed her in prison. To her good fortune, Mum and the Lauchtenland Investigative Service—the LIS—were onto the scheme well before her involvement. In the end, her innocence protected her.
“It’s a fairy tale,” Mum said. “Our fairy tale. The one I told you and Gus at bedtime.”
“Funny, I don’t see Rachel writing about shining knights and fire-breathing dragons.” He paused to read some of the text.
“…the young crown prince was all but commanded to find a wife or risk the right of the throne and lose the kingdom.”
“…king without a bride was no king at all.”
“The Swan’s Feather? She’s stolen our story.”
Perhaps it was the sentiment of his youth, or the realization he was a future king without a bride, that caused a rise of warm tears.
“She didn’t steal it but nor did she ask my permission,” Mum said. “But it’s done and I see no reason to protest. After the mess last year with the tech scam, she needs a win. A career in capital investment was not her future.”
“How can you let it go? The fairy tale was not hers to tell.” It was theirs. His and Mum’s. More specifically, his. He was the one who loved the tale as a child. The one who found a white feather in Clouver Abbey after his wife’s funeral.
It’d been a sacred moment. As if she were still with him. His one true love.
“Isn’t it? The story belongs to no one yet everyone. Especially to a Blue. I heard it from my grandmother who heard it from her grandmother. It’s the Family’s story and if Rachel profits from it, I’ve no quarrel. Perhaps she’s found her calling.”
“But you’re the queen, the proprietor of the story. The crown heir who had to marry.”
“Perhaps, but it’s done. Arabella asked me not to make a thing of it and I won’t. I’m really more concerned the publicity will bring up her faux pas from last year. I can see it now. On the set with some presenter. ‘Great fairy tale, Princess Rachel, but do tell us how you became involved with Digital Light. Were you almost thrown in the dungeon?’”
“The onus of the media will fall on her publisher.” John flipped through the story images, struck by how much the drawn prince resembled him.
“True, and Arabella claims they really believe in her and the book. She’ll perform readings at schools and daycares, highlighting the reading programs Arabella patrons. It’s a win for all.”
Mum excelled at supporting others, at believing in them. John used to attribute it to her position. Why not extol others from a queenly perch? After all, she was on top of the heap. But over the years he understood her generosity of spirit was more than duty. It was her nature. Her heart.
“I’ll do what I can to support her.” John returned the mock-up to his mother. “Why did we need a meeting about it? You could’ve told me over dinner.”
“There’s more than one purpose for our gathering.” Mum scanned the pages of Rachel’s book and smiled. “He looks like you. Didn’t you always see yourself as the hero in this story?”
“When I was ten, perhaps.” His eyes blurred again. He’d not confess it out loud, but that Family fairy tale had shaped his heart of love. “I found my princess without the journey of our hero. And she was most suitable. For me and the job.”
Yet the fairy-tale prince had a happy ending. The real-life prince was a widower at thirty-one.
“You’ll find a new love, John,” Mum said with a comforting hope he couldn’t quite accept. “You’re young, intelligent, handsome, if I say so myself.” She smiled her famous smile. The one Gus had inherited. “You are healing, aren’t you?”
“There are days I feel normal, whatever that is, like I’m ready to move on. I’ve been through all the firsts—birthdays, holidays, wedding anniversary. All that remains is the memorial of her death.” Almost two months away. At the end of August. “Other days I want to crawl into a hole. Twice this month, I started up North One to visit Briley but turned round at the first exit. I’m trapped, Mum, between my fairy tale”—he motioned to the manuscript—“and reality.”
She set aside the book and crossed over to him, kneeling beside his chair. “What can I do to help?”
He kissed her forehead. “You’re doing it. Listening. Loving me. Being patient.” He offered her a hand as she tried to stand and stumbled. “Mum, are you okay?”
“The heel of my shoe caught. Don’t fuss.” Though she returned to her chair with a tired sigh. “There’s another thing,” she added. “I asked Gus to let me tell you.”
By her tone and expression, he knew where this was going. “Daffy is pregnant?”
“Yes, but you can’t be surprised,” Mum said, low and tender, with a touch of pink excitement on her cheeks. Of course. This was her first grandchild. Well, not technically, but what did it matter now? “The baby’s due in December.”
“I’ll be an uncle.” Instead of a father. They’d announced Holland’s honeymoon pregnancy to the Family a month before the accident. John plastered on his best smile, downed the last of his tea, and set aside his cup and saucer. “The fun, eccentric one with a library of old books and a crow living on his shoulder.”
Mum made a face. “You will be the uncle king who allows his nieces and nephews to play hide-n-seek in the throne room, who dons a red suit at Christmas to pass out their presents. John, look at me. You’ll be the uncle who tucks in his children with Gus’s during a wild, crazy summer sleepover. I know you lost more than a wife that day but—”
“Mum, please. Can we not discuss it?”
Her words, her vision of the future inspired more tears—which he found annoying. He’d cut off the waterworks six months ago. Crying wouldn’t bring her back, or the baby she carried.
However all this talk of fairy tales, future children, the documentary, and the approaching one-year anniversary of Holland’s death—where he’d place a wreath on her headstone… His tears had a will of their own.
“The thing is, Mum, I can’t see my way clear. My future seems so…so gray and blank. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful because I’ve more than most. I’ve a rare and privileged position. I know what and who I’ll be ten years from now. Twenty. But I can’t help wondering if God didn’t mean for me to die on that day too. With them.”
He was supposed to meet Holland for an afternoon of riding but investiture planning had waylaid him.
“Darling,” Mum said. “You are here because you’ve a purpose. You will find your way. Have faith. A lovely future awaits you. I know this as sure as I’m queen of Lauchtenland.” She left him no room to argue because Mum was most definitely the queen of Lauchtenland. “However, I urge you not to be passive about your future. Seek it. Ask. Don’t assume your present situation is the model for your life. Death, as cruel as it can be, happens in the midst of life. Of living. Holland’s journey ended. Yours did not. Not to sound trite or cliché, but she would want you to find happiness, marry, have children.”
