Clarisse sat across from her husband and regarded him thoughtfully as the plane lifted off Monrovian soil. The swiveling leather lounge chairs were comfortable in the extreme and the perks of the private plane also included a couple of leather sofas if one preferred. Regardless of the creature comforts, Rupert sat stiff and cramped in his seat. His face was turned to the window, but she could read the strain evident in his expression.
He'd been like this ever since the hunting accident. The funeral had been held that morning. The King and Queen had cleared their schedules and made arrangements to attend. Normally, the funeral of a lesser nobleman like Lord Haversmith would not result in attendance by one of the monarchs, much less both. But seeing that he died while partaking of the King's hospitality, Rupert felt it important that they both attend. Clarisse counted the man as a friend, and she made no complaint.
The service was well attended and Clarisse expected that they would make a brief appearance at the reception following. Rupert, however, seemed desperate to make a quick getaway. Clarisse managed to convince him that would be rude and they made their way through the receiving line, then mingled politely with the other mourners.
Clarisse found herself captivated by the Haversmith's twelve year old son, Harrison. He reminded Clarisse of her own sons, especially the more serious Pierre. She'd asked him of his plans for the future, and the bright eyed youngster immediately launched into a laundry list of his hopes and dreams. His eyes clouded over when the realization that his father would not be there to see any of the dreams realized hit home once again. Clarisse could hardly resist the urge to gather him up into her arms.
When Harrison finally moved on, Clarisse noticed Rupert watching the scene from just a few feet away. He appeared practically stricken. She moved to him and took him by the elbow, leaning in close. "Doesn't he remind you of the boys when they were that age," she said softly and pressed his arm companionably.
Rupert nodded curtly and looked away. "I think its best we leave now," he said when he turned back to her.
From that point on Rupert had spoken barely two words to his wife. He was withdrawn and obviously deeply concerned about something. Now, on the luxury jet, flying back to Genovia, Clarisse made another attempt to find out what was wrong.
She moved from her seat across the aisle and sat down in one of the chairs opposite the King. He didn't acknowledge her presence. She sat quietly for a few moments, then reached down to her crossed ankles and removed her shoes. As she raised her legs and put her feet on the seat next to her husband, she allowed herself to slouch down slightly into the soft leather.
It was only with Rupert that she would allow herself the luxury of casualness. It was one of the things that bound them together – they could be real with each other, not hidden behind a mask of monarchy.
"Rupert, darling, please talk to me. What is wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing, Clarisse. Just let me be." He didn't meet her gaze.
"This wasn't your fault, Rupert. You didn't kill the man. It's a tragedy, certainly, but I find your reaction to this a bit hard to understand." She paused and then put her feet down and moved to sit in the seat next to him. "Let me help. Tell me what you're feeling."
Rupert looked at her then, his lip curled into a small, sarcastic smile. "You want me to talk about what I'm feeling? That's rather rich, coming from you." He laughed mirthlessly.
Clarisse pulled back, stung by his words.
"Talk to me," she pleaded again, after a few moments of silence.
"I have nothing to say, Clarisse. I'm sorry the man's dead. Bloody sorry. That's all there is to it." He wouldn't meet her eyes but she knew he was lying. It was written in every line of his face.
Clarisse sighed and reached down for her shoes. She slipped them back on her feet and moved away, back to her original seat. Now it was her turn to stare disconsolately out the window. This feeling of dread, of knowing things were not right, was not unfamiliar. It had been building for months. Rupert had been distancing himself from the day to day work of governance for a long time. The extra work wasn't the problem. Clarisse was no stranger to hard work. It was the fact that Rupert was so closed about what was going on. As she thought about it, she realized how angry she was with him. He'd slowly pushed her away, replacing not only his Queen but his Country with some nameless something that stole his time, his thoughts, his heart. She would have been jealous if she'd know what to be jealous of. But she had no idea.
But she could find out.
Determination set the fine features of her face into a mask of cool, calm power. She was going to find out. She stood up and crossed the aisle once more to face her husband. She stood motionless in front of him until he finally looked up at her.
"I'm tired of this, Rupert. I don't know what the problem is, or what has been claiming your time and attention for all these months, but it has to change." He started to speak but she held up a hand. "Don't lie to me again. I know you're lying and if you're not going to tell me the truth, then don't say anything." She reached out the hand she'd stopped him with and ran it down the side of his face. "I can see that something is eating you up inside. Tell me. Let me help you." Now she was kneeling next to him. He took hold of her hand and slowly brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes at the feel of her skin against his lips.
"I'm fine," he murmured. "Just a little tired lately. The stress. You know…"
Clarisse stood and pulled her hand away. "Stop. Just stop." He looked up at her imploringly but said nothing. "Things have to change, Rupert. And soon. If you don't want to tell me, then I will have to find out for myself."
She turned away from him and stalked down the aisle, through the curtain to the back of the cabin. Rupert felt tears sting his eyes. He would love nothing more than to tell someone about the heavy ache in his heart, the sickness of his soul at the thought of what he'd done and what he'd become. He could never tell her, though. He couldn't face the thought of what he would see in her eyes when she learned of what he had done.
_______________________________________________________________
The Queen was obviously angry as she threw back the curtain separating the Royal cabin from the rest of the Genovia One. Her voice was tight and clipped when she asked the stewardess for a cup of tea. The young woman was obviously disconcerted by the sound of the Queen's lacquered fingernails tapping out a rhythm of impatience on the counter as the watched pot failed to boil.
Joseph rose from his seat nearby and moved to the Queen's side. "Everything ok?" he asked quietly after the tea had been delivered and the stewardess had moved out of earshot.
"Yes," Clarisse replied shortly, the tea spoon clinking against the china cup as she stirred the tea somewhat violently.
"Are you sure?" he pressed.
"I'm fine. Just fine, Joseph. It was a simple question. And I gave you a simple answer. Is there a problem?" Clarisse snapped at him.
"Not at all, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly. "Enjoy your tea. We'll be landing in another ten minutes."
Without another word she turned away and swept back through the curtain to the front of the cabin. Joseph watched her for a moment before to his seat and buckling his seatbelt.
Genovia One landed without incident and the King and Queen were quiet during the ride back to the palace. Upon their arrival, the royal couple separated, each conferring with assistants on their way to their respective offices.
King Rupert was out of earshot by the time Clarisse met Charlotte in the foyer.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," Charlotte said, executing a small courtesy. "How was your trip?"
Joseph answered before Clarisse could say a word. "It was fine, Charlotte. Just fine," he said, parroting Clarisse's tone from their encounter on the plane. Clarisse favored him with an icy glare. Charlotte looked distinctly confused.
"I thought there was no problem, Joseph," Clarisse said sarcastically.
"Of course not, Your Majesty," he replied, even as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. He let his lips linger momentarily on her hand as he inhaled her perfume.
Clarisse couldn't help but shiver at the feel of his whiskers brushing across her hand. This small crack in her self-control did nothing to improve her mood. "Then kindly unhand me and let me get on with my work. Don't you have cameras you should be staring at? Somewhere else?"
"Monitors, Your Majesty. We stare at monitors." He spoke with stiff dignity, pretending to be offended. Charlotte watched the scene, trying not to laugh. Joseph was the only person who could talk to the Queen like this. And, as a result, he was often the only one that could draw her back into good spirits.
"How can you see them through those dark glasses, Joseph? You look like a blind man!" Clarisse countered.
Joseph laughed. "I wear the dark glasses to keep my X-ray vision in check."
"X-ray vision?"
"Yes. You can't imagine how disconcerting it is to be able to see through everything. The shades counteract the X-rays and I can see normally." Joseph appeared deadly serious and it was this, as much as the nonsense he was spouting that finally drew a smiled from the Queen.
"Oh, do go away, Joseph," she sighed. "I really do have work to do." Now, obviously more relaxed, she reached out and squeezed his forearm in a gesture of thanks. He smiled and patted her hand, then leaned in to whisper in her ear. "There is something you should know…"
"What's that?" she asked.
He leaned in again, lips brushing the hair next to her ear. "Sometimes, when I'm following along behind you…I take off the shades."
With that he withdrew, leaving the Queen a bit flustered and a lot happier than she'd been all day.
_________________________________________________________________________
"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."
The age-old words sounded desperate. Archbishop Montague recognized the voice. He'd seen the young prince in the church, kneeling at a pew, when he first entered the confessional. He seldom heard confession any more. Since he'd become Archbishop of Genovia almost a decade prior, he'd been much too busy with matters of administration. However, there were occasions when he helped fill in for other priests. This was one of those times.
There had been few people waiting for confession this day, as was the case more often than not. Pierre had waited until the sanctuary was empty before he entered the small dark booth.
"It's been two months since my last confession." The prince repeated the formulaic intonation as if that alone would save him.
"Since my last confession, I have committed the sins of –"
"Your Highness?"
"…arrogance, of envy, of –"
"Pierre!" The priest raised his voice just a notch.
"Yes, Father?"
"Wouldn't you be more comfortable if we simply talked? There is obviously something wrong. Why don't we go back to my office?"
"No, I can't!" He sounded desperate.
"Why not? You know that confession is about more than simply reciting lines. Let's talk about what is wrong."
"I..I can't." Pierre heaved a sigh. "I do need to talk to you, Father, but I have to make sure that what I tell you is in strictest confidence. I know you would never repeat what I say to you, but I need to make sure you are bound by the laws of confession. For your own protection, as well as mine."
"I am just as bound in the comforts of my office, as I am in this box, dear boy. Please, let's talk."
"Let's talk here," Pierre insisted.
"Very well." The Archbishop waited patiently.
The silence lengthened between them. The tension emanating from the other side of the screened partition was almost visible to the priest. He started to pray silently to himself. Eventually he heard a deep inhale and the Prince began to speak.
"I love my country. Genovia and my duty towards it have been drummed into me my entire life, Father. I want to serve Genovia. It's all I've ever wanted."
Montague did not speak. Patience was one of his virtues.
"I've been my father's student my entire life. He's been my role model, my tutor, my guide. But the older I get, the more I learn, the more I see.
"And the more I see, the more I hate what I see."
The Archbishop waited a few moments. "What do you see, Pierre?" he asked softly.
"Lust. Greed. And death."
"Lust and greed – that's only two out of the seven deadliest. I'm surprised you haven't seen more, dear boy."
"Oh, Jesus," Pierre moaned. Montague couldn't tell if it was a prayer or a curse. The Prince continued, "I have seen more. I've seen murder, Your Excellency. I watched my father murder a man. He didn't pull the trigger, but it was obvious he was a party to it. I never would have thought my father was capable of taking an innocent life and I don't know what to do."
"Oh dear God," the Archbishop murmured, not sure himself whether he meant it as a prayer or a curse. On the other side of the partition he could hear the hitching breaths as the young man tried to stifle his sobs. "Who have you talked to about this?" he asked at last.
"N-no one, Excellency. How could I? If my mother knew… It would destroy the monarchy and more importantly it would destroy her. Mother wouldn't let this pass. She would dismantle our family's rule herself if she thought that it was being supported by such crimes." Pierre paused for breath and turned his thoughts towards the Queen. "Father has turned more and more of his work over to her in the last year or so. My mother is basically running the country with my father acting as figure-head. She's not happy about it, but she's much too devoted to her duty to let that stop her."
"Pierre," the priest interrupted the prince's maternal musings. "You have to tell her. She's the Queen, she's your mother and she's his wife. She needs to know what is happening, don't you think?"
"No. I can never tell her. No one can know – there is too much at stake. If Father loses the throne, it would most likely pass to the Von Troken family. Can you imagine the state of turmoil that would leave the country in? It's unfathomable. No, the best course is for Mother to continue to rule, until…" His voice trailed off.
"Until you ascend the thrown?"
"No."
This was not the answer the priest expected. He waited again while the prince collected his thoughts.
"I cannot be king," Pierre said at long last. "Not after this. I will not speak of this to anyone again, after today. But I cannot take the throne, knowing what I know. I don't want to become the man my father is. He is – was – a good man. But he's never been faithful to my mother and now he's buried himself in some kind of selfish, greedy mire that has him neglecting the very duty that justifies his existence.
"I will never be king, Father."
"But, Pierre – Your Highness – what will happen when your father dies? What then?"
"I am going to abdicate. Philippe will become king in my stead. He's better suited for the role and he can assume the throne without the guilt that I am saddled with." Pierre's voice was strong and steady on this point. The Archbishop couldn't help but smile. The young man sounded very much like his mother.
"You've obviously thought this through," the priest said quietly. "I suppose there is no point in arguing with you."
"I'd prefer you didn't," Pierre replied drily.
"Don't you think that your knowledge of this atrocity will make you a better ruler? Isn't it possible it will strengthen your resolve not to let yourself be tempted by such power and freedom?"
"No, it's just not possible. I can't live the lie that would entail. This is the only solution."
"What happens now?" the Archbishop asked.
"Now I have to find a way to tell my parents that I'm not going to be king." Pierre sighed. "Pray for me, Excellency. And pray for my family."
"As you wish, my son," the soothing voice intoned.
As the Archbishop made his way home some time later, he thanked God for the seal of the confessional. He knew how guilty he felt for carrying this knowledge, even knowing full well he was bound by the laws of the Church never to reveal it. He could only imagine how his young friend, the prince, must be feeling. Pierre was doing what he thought was right. As best he could see it.
But was this really the best solution? Or was it just another in a long line of secrets that carved the heart and soul from his country's ruling family?