Disclaimer: None of the characters herein belong to me and are the property of Disney and Meg Cabot. I make no monetary gain from writing. This applies to all of the chapters.
Author's note: I wanted to explore Rupert's death, and its implications for Joseph, in a one-shot. It grew arms and legs and became this. It's really too big for a short story but it doesn't suit being a chapter story either.
At times I refer to the story 'I Know My Transgressions' but reading that is not essential to enjoying this.
Joseph
He stood in front of the desk, staring beyond the man in front of him to look out across the lawns. The gardeners were tending to the roses, taking advantage of the heavy rains that had fallen that morning. He knew why he was here. He sweated through leather and momentarily regretted not removing the jacket for which he was so well known.
"I have cancer."
Joseph looked at him and nodded. He had seen it in him recently, the way he hunched over his desk as he signed papers. He did this to try and find a comfortable position, to stave off the growing pain that had started as a niggle under his ribcage and had grown to a constant, unwanted companion – just one paper more. Just one more duty before rest. He did it so he could take a deeper breath into increasingly weakening lungs. The mask dropped a little and pain climbed from the tension in his neck onto his face, settling across his jaw and creasing his brow. He sat back in the chair and rubbed his right hand over his side, massaging with a grimace through the damp cotton of his shirt. He reached for the finely hewn box on the table and flipping the lid open, lifted a cigar out. He smiled. He relaxed for a moment.
"Don't say anything to me," he held up the cigar and began to pick at the wrapping.
"I won't your Majesty," he said quietly.
"It's not going to do me any good anyway Joseph."
Joseph nodded.
"You are the first person I've spoken to," Rupert motioned to the seat before him.
Joseph ignored the gesture – he never had been comfortable with this sort of blurring of the lines. The King was his to serve, not to befriend. They had always played this game though. Rupert extending a hand, though not quite; Joseph grasping it, though not fully. Rupert, he thought to himself, let's not play around here.
He had risen through the ranks at the same time, on a different level, as the king in front of him. They had grown grey together. Yet they were poles apart. The King was a good man but that was where their relationship ended and Joseph was content with that. In fact more than content.
Joseph waited for him to continue, and remained standing.
"Joseph, my friend, sit!"
Joseph finally sat, looking at the man in front of him as he contemplated the cigar he was about to take a draw on. He took great pleasure in the action but that enjoyment was cut short by a sudden fit of intense coughing. He doubled over, dropping the cigar onto the desk before him. Discreetly, as ever, Joseph reached over and with a swift hand, picked up the offending item. He was as discreet as when he escorted his mistresses in and out, or covered for him, or did his dirty work. Joseph pressed the lit end between his fingers and extinguished it.
"Don't tell her," the king rasped, attempting to catch an elusive breath. He let out a groan and closed his eyes.
"You're not doing yourself any favours, Rupert."
A moment of disconnect passed between them – he had overstepped the bounds and Rupert saw it as an affront to social situations. Then they fell back into step and the steely look that had passed between them was a fleeting memory. This was why it was not friendship in the normal sense of the word. It was not friendship at all. Joseph knew that.
The King dragged in a rough breath and grumbled, "It's all I have."
Joseph bit back a response and merely inclined his head. It came to his mouth before he meant it to be there; "What do you need me to do?"
Rupert shook his head, "I do not know. I just needed to tell someone. I chose you."
That was the problem, they always chose him for one burden or another. For one spat more to solve, or one moment more of his time. He merely nodded, groping about for something to say that was not contrived or ill-placed. He did not want to convey anything other than genuine concern because he did feel concern. This man might not be his friend but he cared for him because that had always been his role in life.
"What treatment is the physician suggesting?"
Rupert looked thoughtful for a moment, then said dryly, "The usual. Poisonous chemo and - could work, most likely won't - radiotherapy. They can't cure it Joseph. They cannot stop it..."
There was a moment of deafening understanding – he was telling him he was dying. Joseph just stared, looked, saw right through him. Thought about her. How would she react?
"So," he looked the king directly in the eye, "You are not taking any treatment?"
"No," he shook his head, a contemplative look falling over his face, "No."
Joseph nodded, "That's your decision."
"You have always been a diplomat," Rupert laughed a little, "You should have joined the attache core."
"No," Joseph responded, "I halve always been too...uncouth. More of a fighter really."
Rupert nodded a little, "Renaldis do not die undignified deaths Joseph. I can't die an undignified death. You must ensure my death has dignity."
Joseph was under the impression that the king was speaking to himself more than to him. He was staring into nowhere, the words dying into thinness. Joseph understood precisely what the king meant and admired his desire to end his life in this world in his own terms.
"You'll look after her, won't you?"
The silence grew thicker then, more absolute. Rupert knew why the silence grew and Joseph did too. But both were cowards – not willing enough to admit it.
"You know I will. I promise..."
But the words disappeared. This man, in front of him, had loved her in the way that friends loved. He had made love to her in the way that brought about heirs. He had worked with her as partners worked. It was paltry. Joseph could not stand it; the envy inside him filled his chest, bloomed like the roses in her garden.
"I know," the king answered, saving himself and Joseph from that moment of discomfort, "Give me time to tell her."
"I will, your Majesty."
"I love her," Rupert murmured, "I remember her walking down the aisle and I was petrified. She was beautiful in the way that those finely bred girls are – I knew I couldn't love her like I should have. I did though, in some ways I did. I do."
This, Joseph felt like saying, was not what he needed to hear. Then he reminded himself that he wasn't the one who'd just been diagnosed with an illness that was due to cut his life short in the most finite way. And he would never have said that to Rupert anyway. Don't mention her to me, don't tell me you love her.
Since the first moment when Rupert had saw it between them; that spark, that untouchable whisper of something that bled through the years of unhappiness and propriety, it had been an unspoken truth that passed between the two men. Rupert loved her as he was supposed to; measured and properly, confined and controlled. Joseph loved her in every way it was wrong.
"You can go now."
The tone had changed. Rupert had been reminded of what existed in the dark corners and he wanted to turn the light on again. He smiled a tight smile and waved a dismissive hand. Joseph always knew when the charade was finished – he bowed out like a seasoned Thespian.
Joseph took to the gardens, having been tempted by the roses since he had looked over the King's head and into the vast green lawns. From inside the palace you couldn't smell the overpowering, fragrant richness but outside it covered everything. It was an odd day for a smell like this – it belayed the sense of strangeness that had rested over him at Rupert's news. He peeled the leather jacket off and placed it neatly at his side on the bench. He pushed out his arms from his body, flexed his muscles, fished for his sunglasses in his pocket. Then he sat for a while, wondering what it all meant.
The temptation to dream was a crime in itself.
He had work to do. Right now though he couldn't concentrate on anything. There were the weekly procedurals to go over and the daily threats to code. There was the onerous task of chasing up the contractors who still hadn't fitted the final security cameras around the bounds of the palace. He had that to do because he wouldn't have made anyone else responsible for such a thankless job. And Scott to train; the boy with the glasses. There was so much to do and so little urgency to do it.
He had been a fool though, and forgotten his work. If he had checked the log that morning, before he'd visited Rupert's office, he'd have known she was due back from her riding at 12 pm. Of course he had not because he knew her schedule off by heart. He had just allowed it to slip his mind. He scolded himself internally.
Usually he relished seeing her; not today. Today it was different.
She came towards him and she was entirely in a world of her own. This was when he was most able to observe her. After all, that was what he was supposed to do and he had grown very good at observing her. He thought about those meetings she would have, with diplomats from far flung places. He thought of how she would drift into her own world, her chin propped gracefully on one hand while the fingers of her other hand fiddled gently with scarf or cardigan or pendant. Sometimes she would let her heel slide from her foot so that her leather pump dangled on her toes, and the heel of her stocking would rasp lightly as she slipped the shoe back on. Oft times she would just disappear into another world. Leaving both of them behind. He wondered where she went. Sometimes, after the meeting or the conference or the summit, as they slid into the leather of the back seat and the silence pressed them into conversation, he wanted desperately to ask her where she had gone. But he didn't. He probably never would.
She was walking along, tapping her riding crop absently on her thigh, stopping to sample the roses along the lengthy path. Her eyes were elsewhere; somewhere neither he, nor Rupert, existed. He envied her escapism.
She saw him just as she stooped down to sample the roses named after her. He was a few feet away. The flash of black, in a world of pastels and greens, must have caught her eye. She straightened up and gifted him a smile; he stood up, face impassive.
"Hello dear."
In the gardens, he wanted to say to her, don't call me that.
"Hello your Majesty."
"Enjoying the sun?"
"Something like that," he nodded, "The smell really. The rain makes it stronger."
"Ask me how my morning was?"
"How was your morning, your Majesty?" He smiled, despite wishing he wouldn't, at her naïve happiness.
"Divine," she sat down on the bench and, as was customary, he remained standing. She looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sun, "I didn't wake until seven a.m. Can you believe it? "
He smiled at her excitement. He did not say; of course I do Clarisse. I know everything about you. I know that at seven this morning, you padded across your chamber and began your routine. I want to watch it on the CCTV sometimes but I can't. Even I would feel like an intruder then.
"I have a vast amount of work," she continued, "But I need company to complete it."
Always this dance. Any excuse. Any reason. A reason to shut themselves away, to pretend that those momentary touches, those dangerous, lingering fingers were not the real reason behind such a pretence. She needed help with a guest-list. He wanted to brief her on new staff members. The excuses were inconsequential.
"Can't your secretary help you?"
He had not meant his tone to be so clipped but it was. He instantly regretted it, wished he could reel his words back in. Today it was dangerous to be with her. His conscience had fled him, riding on the fragile back of a long forgotten hope.
For a moment her mask slipped and disappointment flooded her face. Then her face was impassive and anger lingered in her eyes.
"As you wish," she said curtly, standing up.
"Work can wait," he responded quickly.
She turned to him, an odd look of sadness pressing the corners of her mouth down, "Okay Joseph."
"Your office?"
"My chamber," she answered, "It's cooler in there."
Once he stepped over the threshold, they shed formal titles. One transgression, he thought wryly, led to another. From your Majesty to Clarisse, from couch to bed. Her chamber was cooler, he had to grant her that much. She asked the maid to bring tea – iced if you would please – and some sandwiches. He found it bizarre that she enjoyed eating those little, perfectly cut sandwiches with cucumber and butter yet he'd grown to like them. The maid curtsied, left, and returned with the tray in the time it took her to change into a summer dress. He waited in the sitting room as she dressed. He'd never been in her bedroom – even as the Head of Security. He sent his second in command in any time he needed to go in there. If he was ever to venture in there, he knew, he would have been a sinner in a temple.
She went barefoot, across the room, and flung open the balcony doors when she re-emerged. He glimpsed the bed through the doors and turned away.
"What are you working on?"
"A not entirely unpleasant task," she responded, lifting a box file from her desk and placing it on the coffee table, "Ball invitations."
A very weak pretence. Clarisse already had a set list of who to invite to everything.
"The boys phoned me today," she leaned forward and took the paper from within.
"What were they saying?"
He knew how long they'd been on the phone but not what they said. Of course they phoned you today Clarisse, it was me who put through the call. He watched her as she curled her leg under her, the other dangling over the edge of the couch.
"Enjoying their trip. Pierre, as he does, is keeping an eye on Phillippe. He said he got a little upset about Amelia after too many whiskies. Then again, he does that. He was upset that she's nearly fifteen."
He cast his mind back to the winter castle, the day she had closed to him in her disclosure and had always seemed, from then on, to be both very real and very distant. That had been years ago, just after Phillippe's child was born. The last time he had touched her had been years ago. Any time he touched her now, he wasn't really there at all. Perilously close to treason. If he tried hard he could still feel her hand trace across his.
She merely shrugged and looked at him. He had no answer.
"I wish their marriage hadn't broken up," she offered him a sandwich from the plate.
Shaking his head he bent down to slip off his shoes. He straightened up and caught her watching him. She averted her eyes when she realised he had noticed but to soften her embarrassment he smiled. She returned it.
"My darling Clarisse," the mildest affectation had taken on a meaning all of its own, "It was for the best."
"Happiness is important," she answered and her response was weighted heavy with implications.
She moved slightly and their hips were pressed together and she leaned on him.. Silence descended as they sat together, her leg pressed against his, her hand playing with the hem of her dress. He moved his hands along the back of the couch, not quite around her but brushing against her back nonetheless. She closed her eyes, sucked in a breath. He suddenly realised she was preparing herself to say something, and had been planning to all along. He had been trapped.
"You spent all morning with the King."
"I did," he swallowed and he was sure it was audible.
"He's sick Joseph," she turned her face to look at him. At this proximity, they were a kiss away from each other, or a cutting word. Two totally different directions.
"I-"
"You know," she finished for him, "I know you know. You should hear him at night, coughing..."
I do, he thought, I hear him walking from his chamber to yours. Sometimes I watch him on the CCTV. He doesn't come for that any more, I know. You have the boys, you have no need for that. But to bid you goodnight, to kiss your forehead and tell you he loves you. It makes it worse somehow. He doesn't have those mistresses any more – only one who you've come to accept oddly. He's grown up later than other boys but he's grown up and you've grown to love him.
"You must tell me what you know."
She said it slowly, deliberately. Made clear it was not a request.
"It's terminal," he rushed it out quickly, hoping the meaning would get lost in the speed.
"I thought as much," she said quietly. He couldn't look at her for shame.
Finally he looked up as she brushed tears away from her face. She was crying. She was shedding tears over her husband. The man she had grown to love.
"He's your husband, your friend. Your best friend."
He admitted something he had been denying for years. He's your husband Clarisse, and that is more than love, he thought to himself. It's more than me. It's more than the man you want to sleep with.
Her tears flowed freely and he knew why she needed to have this conversation with him – it could have been no one else. She could cry with him, it was very simple. She could ask him and he would tell her everything he ever knew to bring her comfort.
"I don't know what I shall do," she said after a while of silent, slow tears.
"You'll carry on the Renaldi name, support Phillipe in his ascendancy," he said.
He really meant it. He meant to offer all the comfort he could in that moment. His hand reached for hers. She allowed him hold her. Her words came back to him with urgency; "I know my transgressions and my sin..."
"I can't believe he's dying," she whispered eventually, "Rupert is dying. What is one supposed to do in these situations? It's such a bizarre thing. And now I will have to wait until he feels it's the right time to tell me. I wish he would just tell me so I can start to...I don't know what I should start. Where do you start when you realise your husband is dying?"
"I won't act as a go between," he said softly, "You have to tell him you know."
"You have always been between us," she said suddenly, "I think we both know that."
He knew it was not an insult; he knew precisely what she meant. He hadn't expected the turn in conversation. Her sudden intensity frightened him.
"Yes," he whispered. He reached down and placed a kiss on her forehead against all of his better judgement.
Her eye lashes fluttered closed and they were stained dark with tears. He kissed along her jaw-line, across her cheek bones and across her brow. Then he pulled back as he realised what they were doing. She held his shoulders, groaned in the back of her throat. He could tell she couldn't bear to open her eyes.
"I know my transgressions..."
"You are my best friend Joseph."
Her eyes were screwed shut and he knew it was embarrassment. Embarrassment at the slide in pretence but even more so at the fact that it was brought about by the news they had just heard. It was despicable. It was what he wanted. She looked horrified, yet she did not move.
He was ashamed of what he wanted. He had always been ashamed of it. He had wanted her to love him more than she loved her husband. He was asking too much of her, all in one moment. Clarisse could never have delivered that. Even if she wanted to.
"Forgive me for that," he finally muttered, "I was completely and entirely out of order."
She opened her eyes wide and let go of his shoulders, he pulled back a little but she did not let him get far before she placed her hand on his cheek.
"You know you are more than that, don't you?"
Don't say things we can't take back, please, he begged her internally. Let's go back to yesterday, where we sat on this couch and you read some paper work. It was simple then. Don't make me speak Clarisse. You know I am not gifted with words. I am only action – actions I have to suppress every single day.
He nodded, "We need to stop this, Clarisse. I need to stop this. He trusts me..."
"No," she answered slowly, "He doesn't Joseph."
He was taken aback by her response, and he knew it showed on his face. He turned and placed a kiss on her palm. They had done nothing and yet it seemed criminal – but if it felt that way, it must surely be wrong. Yet he held her, her breathing shallow and desperate, his face inches from hers.
"He doesn't trust you," she continued, "He doesn't trust you or me."
They only ever spoke in riddles. Riddles seemed safer.
Rupert
Rupert had always known. From the moment that man had come into his home, his wife had slowly drifted away from him. Though she had never been his in the first place. Their passing looks, so full of promise, had been passing blows to him each time he saw them. Gallant, because he loved her in the way he was supposed to, he had let it run unchecked. And anyway, on his own terms he had his own infidelities to indulge in.
He had thought, as foolish men like him did, that guilt would never find him. He had always subscribed to the belief that his infidelities were part and parcel of his breed. He had never envisioned that guilt would find him as it did now.
It was a crime in itself.
He knew they were not having an affair in the traditional way that one had an affair but there was something of an affair there nonetheless. He had let it go, because he understood it. He let it go because he did not envy her what he had denied her through tradition and propriety. They cared about each other, in the way friends did. She looked at their Head of Security through entirely different eyes.
He had watched Joseph go from the office that afternoon months ago and knew, if Clarisse didn't already know, that he would tell her. He would tell her when they settled in her office, or chamber, that afternoon. They didn't do anything, though somehow it made it worse. Joseph would tell her; then maybe she could have what she wanted.
He had wanted to love her. He had wanted so desperately to make her happy but at first shyness, then duty, then finally Joseph been in the way. And Rupert had denied her that happiness by being a silent spectator. He wished he had asked her to leave him, granted her the one thing she really had loved in her entire life. His pride had not let him. He was an honourable gentleman but not that honourable. He was not honourable enough, for example, to remain faithful to her throughout their marriage.
He shuffled down the corridor and opened her chamber door. She was propped up against the pillows, a book in hand. He admired her then because she was beautiful. Not in the glamorous, fleeting way that young girls were but in a gentle, unobtrusive way that he had yet to learn to fully appreciate.
"Rupert!" She sat up immediately, noted that he had had to stop to lean against the door jamb. She threw the covers away and rushed towards him, held his arm as he pulled in diluted breaths of air at an alarming rate, "Rupert, you promised you would call for me if you wanted to see me. Oh Rupert, how foolish!"
He merely smiled at her. She was impressive when she was angry.
"The surgeon told you not to leave your bed," she admonished, taking his arm and walking him to her bed with slow, deliberate guidance. She helped him up. They sat for a while and she eyed him with unabashed concern, fussing around the pillows at his back to make him comfortable.
Eventually he recovered enough air to speak; "I wish to make a request of you."
"Anything, Rupert."
He knew she meant it. Clarisse never lied. He moved nearer her, happy to be pressed against her. She took his hand in hers and they locked fingers.
"Have you been happy Clarisse?"
She looked at him, considering her response.
"Of course," she whispered.
"I suppose that's not really what I mean then," he answered, "I mean, in our marriage?"
"Oh..." she turned to look at him.
" 'Oh'," he mimicked her, "That is always your answer when you feel unable to be honest. Do you remember when my mother insisted you call her mama, and all you said was 'Oh!'"
They both laughed then, though their laughter was broken by his barking, guttural cough. He lurched forward and his skin grew mottled, his vain attempt at gathering a breath to himself seeming almost impossible. He watched as panic descended over her and she fiddled with the jug of water at her bedside, as if that might save him.
"Don't…" he gasped, waving her attempts away, "It doesn't…help."
He calmed again, this time wincing when pains shot through his side. She let out a little mewl of distress, reaching out to him.
"Clarisse, don't fuss," he insisted.
"I'm trying not to," she said sternly.
"No amount of fussing will…"
He trailed off. He hadn't yet be able to say it, despite how much it was a close reality. To admit one was dying, to give it words and sounds, was the final step.
"You need to call Pierre home," he finally said instead, averting his face from her as he said it, "It's not going to be lo-"
"Do not say that Rupert, please," she pleaded softly and to hear it was to hear sadness given a voice.
"God Clarisse!" He couldn't keep his amusement to himself, "For someone who is typically so practical - "
"One cannot be practical, Rupert, about the death of their spouse!"
Silence descended then and tears were tricking down her face, dangling on her jawline and darkening the silk of her nightgown. She looked so very vulnerable and he felt guilty for seeming thoughtless. Clarisse, he was often reminded by his own blasé behaviour, was not as strong as she appeared.
"Oh Clarisse," he reached out to swipe away her tears, "Oh Clarisse I'm so sorry. I think, because I've accepted it, that everyone has. I forget…"
She shook her head, caught his hand in hers, "No I am sorry. Heaven knows I must be the strong one here."
"Maybe neither of us need to be," he squeezed her fingers, "Maybe for a moment we're allowed to be weak."
She tipped her head to rest it on his shoulder and curled her arm around his. They were rarely affectionate but when they were it struck him as odd that they didn't illustrate affection to each other more often. It wasn't natural to either of them but when they did it was a source of comfort. It was affection shared, only fleetingly, between a couple who had never been anything more than good friends.
Despite their vain, sore, brutal attempts at something more.
"Clarisse," he kissed her cheek, "I didn't really come her to have a conversation about me. In fact, quite the opposite. I wanted to talk about you and what will happen after."
She nodded, "I know what I must do for you and I promise I will. I might not be a Renaldi by blood, but the rule of this family means too much to me. I will help Phi-"
"God woman!" He laughed a little again, "You think only of others."
"You sound accusing," she smiled, "Surely that isn't a bad thing?"
Silence descended again and he thought of his youngest son – his youngest son who was a father but indeed seemed too young to be king. Of course Phillippe would need Clarisse. He would need Clarisse more than he ever had.
"I am more interested in you. In what lies in your future…after me," he continued.
"I don't understand you."
"No," he laughed ruefully, "And I for one have never been good at making myself understood in this respect. Not in this respect in particular."
"Why, Rupert," her tone was stern, "Are you speaking in riddles?"
"Because this is as embarrassing a subject for both of us as I can imagine."
She dipped her head, "I am frightened now about what you are going to say."
"I asked you if you were happy. Be decent enough to tell me you weren't," he said softly, the agony of the question making his voice quiet, "I already know that our marriage, on the whole, made you very unhappy."
She shook her head and he wasn't sure if this was an affirmation or a refusal to answer.
"I have made you unhappy," he continued on, "My infidelities, my carelessness at times. My ignorance too…"
He left the words hanging in the air.
"Rupert, you are one of my dearest friends," she said softly, fiddling with the seams of the sheets.
"Yes but not the man you love," he said softly, "And I regret I couldn't be that."
"You tried," she said gently, "We both did."
"It wasn't enough and I am sorry for that."
He had apologised for his infidelities, for his desperate need to find meaning in his life and marriage, but it was never quite enough to make either of them believe it. He had been willed into marrying Lady Clarisse by parents who were frightened he was not yet ready to take the crown. She was the perfect queen and that was, perhaps, the most off-putting thing about her. She had been bred to perfection and it frightened him. He had, on and off, tried to feign marital happiness but always he fell back into the arms of other women.
"When I die," he finally used the words, "When I die you'll be at my side Clarisse, won't you? Because you've always been at my side, even when I didn't want it."
"At times," she whispered, "At times I didn't want to be there."
He nodded, not hurt at all by her honesty but relishing it instead.
"Do you ever picture another life, another path?"
He contemplated her question for a moment. Had he been allowed to marry the woman he loved he would have been happier perhaps, yet he would not have Clarisse to stand by him. Even in his mind there was no better woman, no better diplomat or lady to be his queen. She had been the perfect queen for him, just not the perfect wife.
Instead he saw the woman he loved only briefly, engaged in clandestine affairs, and now in his illness he saw Lady Aeryn rarely because her coming to the palace seemed crass now that he was ill and journeying to her, without an oxygen tank, was impossible. He resented it as if it were a punishment yet one that he deserved wholeheartedly. He knew now that this was his penance but with Clarisse at his side it seemed less of a terror to die alone.
"Yes and I know you do," he said, tracing his fingers across hers, "You imagine a life where you are much happier."
She shook her head, "I can't really imagine it. Not really. And despite the hardships, the struggles, I would never have changed it for anything."
Her words, he knew, were not entirely honest. Though she meant them to be, they weren't.
"Perhaps then, Clarisse, only one thing would have made you change it. Perhaps only for one person you would have changed it," he watched her turn her face away, "And yet you didn't Clarisse, not even for him. Even though you could have. You have shown me much more loyalty than I've ever shown you."
He could not bring himself to say Joseph's name. They both knew, however, to whom he was referring.
She said nothing, perhaps because she felt embarrassed by his candid admission. He was growing tired and this emotionally charged conversation had drained him of words even though he needed to press on.
"I cannot atone now for what I've done to you, to us," he said gently, "But I can tell you that I know I was wrong. That I deprived you of happiness. And I can request something of you too."
"And what is that?"
Her voice was a little sharp. Clarisse did not like to be laid out for analysis or to be reminded of what was in the past. He needed though, for his own piece of mind, to do this.
"That you let yourself be happy when I am no longer here," he requested.
The suggestion, while implicit, was clear.
To his surprise she gave a bitter little laugh, "You must be tired Rupert, you should sleep."
"You have to swear to me," he insisted, "You have to put duty to the side."
She ignored him as she reached for the lamp, "Will you be sleeping here with me?"
He knew now that the conversation was at an end. She did not want to discuss this with him. He felt cheated by his own sense of self – as if what he had thought were possible had never been possible at all.
"Yes, if that's okay."
He gave into his exhaustion. The punishment, he suddenly realised, lay in her refusal to acknowledge what he had taken from her.
"Of course it is," she helped him adjust the pillows, "You're my best friend."
He smiled then, "I am sorry you didn't have the life you deserved."
"And I am sorry too Rupert."
They lay in the darkness, hands pressed together, and listened to the silence surrounding them. He wanted, so desperately, to say more. He wanted to impress on her how important her future was to him. Yet it seemed unfair to do so; she wasn't ready yet to accept her fate. He felt her crying softly, silently.
I thought you didn't know," she eventually said into the darkness, "And then I realised you did. Don't hate him."
"For a long time I didn't want to see it. Then when I did, I was ashamed."
"It's I who should be ashamed."
"No, it's both of us."
Clarisse
The next day he took to his bed, after collapsing at the foot of the stairs. She had watched him fall with a detached horror she had never known before. Joseph, standing nearby, had reached out to catch him from the solid marble below. Blood, scarlet and oozing, trickled from the side of his mouth and onto his pristinely white shirt. It seemed obscene to observe and above all she had feared for his dignity. She was grateful to Joseph, who instead of raising the alarm, carried the monarch to his room where he set about the plan in place for the end of his life. Rupert, pragmatic as always, had discussed all of this with Joseph beforehand.
She was a spectator to his last act of monarchy – dying precisely as a monarch should.
"You should telephone Pierre," Joseph had said softly to her as they watched the footmen and the King's valet bundle Rupert into his bed, "Clarisse, Your Majesty, it won't be long."
She was terrified at his words.
Her son came directly from Rome and Phillippe had cancelled everything on his schedule, insisting she did too. Then, with the press milling at the gates like vultures, she ordered her maids to look out her mourning wear and awaited her husband's death. It seemed so well organised that the fact there wasn't a time allotted for him to draw his last breath shocked her and the prospect of seeing out his final hours seemed so uncouth.
She thought, as she stood alone at the foot of his bed, that she loved him finally after battling against it for years. She loved him for their conversation the night before. She loved him for the sons he had given her who stood by the window, their heads bent quietly with the archbishop. She loved him for finally realising what they had done to each other.
"Joseph?" she said suddenly.
"Your Majesty?" He came to her side, bowing reverently as he always did.
She looked at his face for a moment; so full of concern only for her as Clarisse, as a woman. He tried to smile and to reassure her with his attentiveness. It dulled the ache and terror somewhat.
"Joseph I want you to fetch Lady Aeryn," she whispered, "Please."
The shock on his face was almost comical had it not been for the sadness of the situation.
"Your Majesty?"
He looked for clarification when she knew he didn't really need it. He was giving her room to manoeuvre out of this seemingly insane request.
"You heard me," she nodded, attempted to give him a reassuring smile.
"Mamma!" Phillipe said from the other side of the room, "Mamma, that is a ridiculous-"
"Hush Philippe," Pierre said gently, "She's right."
In that moment she loved her eldest child more than she could fathom. He had always been so wise. She turned to look at him, to allow him to smile at her with the understanding that he so naturally had.
"She's insane," Philippe muttered, "It's grossly indecent."
She turned to her youngest son then, her anger whispering its way from her mouth, "Don't comment on what you don't understand Philippe. We all have our indecencies. Your father…and me, amongst them. Let's not argue now. I am doing what I know he would want. Stay with your father," she motioned to the prone form of her husband, "I should like to speak with Joseph for a moment."
In the sitting room it was busy with parliamentarians and nobles and to walk through them it felt as if he had already died. They were already looking at her with baleful, sympathetic eyes. Straightening her spine, she strode through without as much as a glance in their direction. There was the odd muttering, the odd bated breath awaiting the announcement of his passing. It seemed wrong for him to die with an audience.
On the other side of the door it was quieter and the marble halls of the palace provided them with the silence and privacy that the chambers did not. It was cool and offered a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the room. She enjoyed the silence and peace for a woefully short moment.
"Clarisse, are you sure about this?"
"Yes," she insisted, though her hands betrayed her as they shook, "I need you do this for him…for me."
"I won't ask you to explain," he caressed her face gingerly, as if she were fragile to the touch.
"I don't think I could," she laughed listlessly, "Joseph I need you to do this."
"I know," he nodded, "I will go directly. When she arrives?"
For the first time in a long time he awaited her advice. She almost smiled.
"Just bring her here. Thank you."
She watched his retreating form, grateful for such determination to bring her what she wanted. Then, gathering her strength around her, she went back into the room.
The surgeon was bent over the king, his fingers clasped around the thin wrist. He pulled back, examined him for a moment again, then turned to the boys.
"Your Highness, father," he shook his head, "It won't be long."
The surgeon stepped back and stood beside the archbishop.
They both nodded, stepping towards her as they had when they were little. She wanted so desperately to comfort them. She tried a smile but then a hug seemed the only appropriate conduit to convey her love so she pulled them to her. Both so grown up, but not so much that they denied her affection.
"He'll be so delighted you're both here," she guided them toward the bed, "Come and sit beside him."
They did as they were bid silently, sitting either side of their father.
Had they known him at all, she wondered? He had flitted in and out of the little princes lives, making decisions about schooling and tutors and futures without really knowing them. Sometimes he played chess with them or cracked the odd joke. He had loved them though, in his own way and he had tried, laterally, to make amends.
He had tried to mend a lot of broken things before he came to this point.
"He loved you both so much."
As it seemed appropriate to do, they nodded in agreement with her words.
For a while they watched in silence and as they carried out their vigil she was forced to recall their life together. Not all of it had been awful and not all of it had been good. It just simply had been their life. It occurred to her that this might be the worst type of selfishness; one where you did nothing to affect each other's happiness. They had battled instead, and fought, and loved and laughed. They had been too frightened to say what they felt. She had been bound by her duty and so had he. They had been imprisoned by their roles in life and they had been willing captives.
"Not one of us," she leaned down towards his ear, felt his shallow breaths against the palm of her hand as it rested across his chest, "Should be ashamed. We did what we could with what we had. I love you, I need you to know that."
Now she had said what she wanted to say. Now there was catharsis. It seemed the ultimate kindness to give him his last moments on earth with the person who had brought him happiness eventually. And that person, she knew, was not herself.
Joseph brought Lady Aeryn to the chamber, no doubt through the throng of people sniffling and gazing on her as if she were a pariah, and she stood at the foot of the bed as Rupert Renaldi died with his sons on either side. Clarisse sat at his side too, his hand in hers, and prayed every prayer she knew.
Eventually she turned her eyes to the surgeon, "Master surgeon," she said calmly, "I think the king is dead."
He nodded and moved to confirm her words. He listened for a heartbeat where, already, she knew there was not one. It was funny she suddenly realised, for when he had stopped breathing a little part of her had too.
Not once could she bring herself to look the king's mistress in the eye but it was not needed. No one would say a thing about her and that was how it should be. There were lots of secrets in these halls and chambers, lots of ghosts who had yet to be laid to rest.
"The King is dead," the Archbishop turned and fell onto bended knee before Phillippe, "Long live the King."
Everyone in the room followed suit, Joseph being the only one who came towards her before offering his allegiance. Had this been any other situation she would have been affronted by his lack of propriety but right now she was grateful, only, to him.
"Are you okay?"
"I will be," she whispered, "Now you should take her home."
"I will," he agreed, "I will be back soon."
Then he turned and fell before her son. She watched as he did so – the Head of Security bending to this new, irresponsible child. A mad urge to laugh bubbled in her throat as she realised she was moving from one horror to the next.
For a moment she watched him go with Lady Aeryn, then she was suddenly possessed by an urgency to call him back and tell him about her conversation with her husband the night before.
"Joseph," she said, watching as he already turned to come back to her, leaving the noblewoman at the door to the sitting room.
Immediately her words were inadequate and she hated herself for the next ones which came to her mouth. As always duty silenced her.
"Thank you," she said blandly, "For everything."
"Not at all, Clarisse."
She had thought, when the moment came, her courage would gather itself and make her new again. She felt cheated then, not by Rupert as she had so many times, but by her own fear.
It was a terrible curse to have silently promised both of them something she could not deliver. It was a terrible fate to face. It was, she thought, a crime in itself.
So it was very long but hopefully you enjoyed it and would like to review it? Thank you for reading anyway.