Alternately pushed and pulled by her captors, Clarisse stumbled blindly forward as they took her back upstairs from the cellar to the room she'd been held in before. When the door locked behind her, she began an exploration of the room. There were three large windows along the outside wall. She immediately crossed the room and threw back the heavy drapes, looking for a way out.
The windows were boarded up. Sealed tight.
She turned her attention to the doors in the room. She wrenched them open, finding two closets and a bathroom. There was no egress from any of these. Frustration bubbled to the surface and she slammed the bathroom door, then fell back against it. The sobs she'd managed to hold back so far broke through her wall of control and the tears flowed freely down her face. She slid slowly down the door to the floor, then pulled her knees up to her chest, holding herself tightly as if by holding her body together, she could somehow do the same for her soul.
She hadn't prayed, not really, for a long time. Relying on her own strength and determination had served her well enough in recent years. Now she felt the hopelessness of the situation and realized how little of it was in her control. She prayed now. Not for herself, but for the man who would so thoughtlessly let himself be killed for her. Silently she pleaded with God for his life, begging that he not be taken from her. Joseph held her heart, fragile though it may be, and if he were to die her heart – her soul – would die with him.
Vincent found her on her knees, next to the bed, when he opened the door sometime later. The glow from the lamp outlined her profile and reflected off the gold of her hair. The remaining tears on her cheeks sparkled in the lamplight. He almost felt sorry for her.
But this wasn't the first time. He'd felt sorry for people before. His feelings never interfered with his job. They wouldn't this time either.
Vincent gestured for her to stand up. When she did he said, "Put out your hands." He held up a length of cord and bound her hands together in front of her. "Boss wants to see you again, Luv." He motioned her towards the door. Clarisse could read the cold disinterest in his expression. Negotiating would be wasted on him. And she had no intention of begging. Instead she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as best she could with the rope around her wrists, then walked out of the room.
Mabrey was waiting for her when they arrived in the kitchen.
"Your Majesty," he said coldly. "Please, do be seated." He held out a chair for her. Clarisse looked warily around the room as she sat. Mabrey turned back to whatever he'd been doing when she entered the room.
She placed her hands out in front of her on the table and looked at Vincent expectantly. "Sorry, Luv, but those hands stay tied," he said jovially. "You're money in the bank for all of us and I'm not leaving you unsecured." That said, he stepped back and faded into the corner of the room, exactly as she'd seen Joseph do on countless occasions.
'Joseph.' Cold fear wrapped around her heart.
"Hungry?" Mabrey asked over his shoulder. He puttered around the kitchen as if it was the most natural thing in the world for the Queen to be seated at his kitchen table in the middle of the night. "It's been a busy evening, hasn't it? There's nothing like a good midnight snack to help you make it through a long night."
"Where is Joseph?" she asked coldly.
"I'm sure he'll be along soon. I sent the boys downstairs to collect him just a moment ago. You might as well eat something," Mabrey said as he put a plate of cold cuts and a glass of water on the table in front of her. "We have a long wait before my man in the palace is going to be able to search your library and retrieve the items." Mabrey's voice was still conversational and calm. He seemed wholly unconcerned by the fact that he'd committed treason, kidnapping, assault, and a host of other crimes.
Clarisse's eyes narrowed as she contemplated this new information. The thought that he had a spy in the palace – in her home – gave her pause. Who could it be? And what would happen when her lie was discovered and there were no papers to be found? Pierre was there, visiting for the Pear Festival. And Charlotte. Thankfully Philippe was still away at school. Clarisse was surprised by how small she had allowed her world to become when she realized that most of the people she cared about in her life were under that roof.
The basement door opened and one of the men exclaimed in disgust as he stepped into the room. He wiped his palm on his trousers. His gaze traveled between Mabrey and the Queen. "He's dead. And there's blood all over everything."
"Oh, God! No…" Clarisse whispered. Vincent stepped towards her as she pushed her chair back from the table and got to her feet.
Maybrey stepped up behind her and clamped a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Just throw him into the sea, then. He's no good to us now." Mabrey's voice sounded thick and his hot breath settled heavily on Clarisse's neck as he spoke.
"No! Don't touch him!" Clarisse's voice trembled. "Leave him alone!" She tore herself from Mabrey's grasp and lunged towards the basement door. Vincent moved as she did and blocked her path. Mabrey regained his grip on her and pulled her away once again. Vincent looked questioningly at Mabrey, who indicated he had the Queen under control by thrusting her back into her chair. Vincent joined the other men in the basement.
Clarisse watched helplessly as the four men brought Joseph's body up from the cellars on a makeshift stretcher made from a tablecloth. His head lolled back and forth as his pallbearers swung his body around and made their way towards the door at the rear of the kitchen. She could see Joseph's blood seeping into the linen cloth. Her blood froze in her veins at the sight of Joseph's body being hauled to the sea as if he were merely refuse – rubbish. There they would simply pitch his body into the surf and walk away.
Clarisse felt her body go deathly cold. Mabrey hauled her to her feet once more. "Let's go out into the garden, shall we? We'll be able to watch the festivities from there." He propelled her through the door and out onto a terraced lawn that stretched down to a boardwalk leading to the beach. The house was situated on a sloping hill, not far from the edge of the bay. Mabrey and his captive stood at the top of the boardwalk and watched the activity ahead of them as best they could in the somber moonlight.
Vincent and his men made their way cautiously across a rocky outcrop that formed a natural pier in the surf. When they reached the end, they unceremoniously tossed Joseph's body out into the sea. Clarisse watched in horror as the black clad form sank below the waves. Her heart sank with him. Silent sobs wracked her body as part of her soul was ripped from her and replaced with a dark and heavy anguish. Tremors passed through her, wave after wave of grief and despair.
She wandered down the board walk, trying to keep his body in sight as long as possible. The dark form bobbed listlessly to the surface as it moved away from the shore, only to be reclaimed by the waves. She stopped at the end of the walk, eyes frantically searching the surface of the dark water. She couldn't see him any longer. Her voice had left her and she silently mouthed his name. Then she felt a presence at her side and turned to see Mabrey standing next to her. "No use crying over spilt blood, Milady," he said sarcastically. He pulled her back towards the house as his henchmen followed along behind. His words didn't register as she moved blindly up the walk, not thinking and trying not to feel.
This particular stretch of coastline was strewn with rocks and boulders. Waves crashed violently against those rocks. The sound was deafening to Clarisse's ears. She could almost feel the salty spray tickle her face as she stumbled along.
Clarisse looked out towards the sea, searching again for Joseph's body and considering the possibility of simply running out over the stony shore and into the surf, letting the tide take her where it would. She hesitated momentarily.
Mabrey grabbed her elbow and dragged her forward. "We've no time to stop and enjoy the scenery, Your Majesty," he said mockingly. Clarisse jerked her arm away, catching Mabrey off guard, then suddenly sprinted across the lawn. Mabrey bellowed for his men and took off after her.
The high heels and silk suite were not conducive to any sort of a getaway other than one accomplished in the back of a limousine. Mabrey managed to catch her before she had gotten far. He barreled into her, his momentum driving her to the ground.
Vincent, Kirk and the other two reached them at a run and pulled Mabrey up off of the Queen and set him back on his feet. Clarisse managed to push herself to a sitting position and tried to catch the breath that had been forced from her lungs when the Viscount tackled her.
Mabrey, red-faced and panting hard, snarled at her. Kirk reached down and grasped the rope binding her wrists and hauled her to her feet while Vincent chuckled at the scene.
"Nice try, Luv, but you're going no where," he said. He motioned for the other two men. "Max, you and Gian take Her Bleedin' Majesty back inside."
"Take her to the cellar," Mabrey growled. "She can wait there from now on."
As they made their way back inside the house, Clarisse looked out towards the horizon, trying to think rationally. Thoughts of Joseph, his body battered and broken, dominated her mind. She knew he'd been alive for some time after he'd been shot. She tried to convince herself that he could still be alive. Desperate to hold on to that hope, she tried to put all evidence to the contrary out of her mind.
Unfortunately, her eyes kept stealing back to the trouser leg of the man in front of her. The blood left a deep red smear on his clothing when he wiped his hand there.
Once inside, Clarisse was bundled down the stairs and into the wine cellar. The door slammed shut and she heard the bolt protest as it shot into place on the outside. She struggled to maintain her silent composure in the face of the large dark stain on the dirt floor. More of Joseph's blood. She had to keep it together, had to think.
Within minutes, however, her body wrested control from her mind and she fell asleep. She awoke sometime later, still exhausted and with no awareness of how long she'd slept. The gloom of the wine cellar, broken only by the light of a single dim bulb, was unchanged.
Now thoroughly chilled after having been stretched out of the cold, damp floor, she sat up and huddled against the wall, trying to regain body heat. All she could do now was shiver. And think.
The Viscount told her he had someone in place at the palace that would soon search for the papers that he was so desperate to obtain. Clarisse dreaded what would happen when they searched her library and Mabrey learned she'd lied to him. She still had no idea what money he was talking about or where the list of numbered bank accounts was. The Viscount mentioned the San Cayetano Cartel – the same group that Lord Haversmith warned her about. Warned her, just weeks before his death. Death at the hands of Arthur Mabrey. And somehow, running through this entire story was a thread that tied it to Rupert. At first she doubted the veracity of the Viscount's claim, but she had to admit that even he wouldn't go to such lengths if he didn't truly believe that she held the key to his illicit fortune. Unfortunately, she was completely in the dark. If she had any knowledge about his money, she would gladly surrender it to him to end this ordeal.
Even as that thought raced through her mind, she branded it as irrational. Mabrey would never let her live. He would kill her in cold blood as soon as the information was in his hands. She had to give him something, something that could buy her some time and hopefully get his henchman out of the palace before anyone else got hurt. If she were doomed to death, she would have to make sure she was the only one.
'Not the only one,' her traitorous thoughts reminded her and her eyes traveled back to the bloodstained floor. The longer she stared at it, the brighter her anger burned. Mabrey had taken had stolen their future. Her loyal bodyguard – more than that, her soul mate - had given his life for her. She would not let his sacrifice be in vain.
Her anger ebbed somewhat when it occurred to her that for the first time in a long time, she was completely alone. Even with her eyes closed, the vision of the bloody floor burned brightly in her mind. As she contemplated the scene, her survival instinct kicked in. She had to survive for the sake of her children. They needed her. Philippe was not ready to rule alone. His brother was there for support, but Pierre had little experience than would help him to train the next king. Neither was ready for the burden of the Crown. Not yet. Her people were depending on her, as well. They relied on their Queen to provide the stability and prosperity they'd become accustomed to. Instability in the palace quickly translated into instability in the financial markets, which would effect the welfare of every citizen in some way.
The wall felt cold and hard as she leaned back against it. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. She began to examine the situation from every possible angle, looking for something – anything – she could use to her advantage
The sound of the door opening interrupted her reverie. Mabrey had returned to the cellar and was standing over her. He said something, but she hadn't paid attention. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
Mabrey eyed her appraisingly before speaking again. "You can either walk or be dragged. I can assure you the latter would be a less than comfortable experience. Now, move!"
She stood up, managing the feat more gracefully than she would have thought possible, with her hands still bound together. "I will not," she said firmly. "You're going to kill me no matter what happens, so I see no need to assist you any further. I am not moving from this spot." She was desperate to get out of the macabre cell, but she hoped to keep her captor distracted by being resistant.
"I am not in the mood for this, Your Majesty!" He spat the words out at her.
"I don't really care about your moods, Arthur," she retorted. She glared at him, her eyes burning with rage and grief. She straightened her shoulders and rekindled her determination, appearing almost as tall and powerful as her tormentor. "I don't care about your money. And I'm through cooperating with you."
Unwilling to be cowed, Mabrey snarled at her. "I don't need your cooperation! I will take what I want! Don't think you can stand in my way like you did all those years with King Rupert. You! A mere woman, barely a step above commoner yourself," he laughed. "Had I been your husband, I would never have allowed such behavior in my wife. She knew her place. But Rupert was such a weakling. I tried to rid him of you but he wouldn't allow it."
"What are you talking about?" She stepped back slightly, taken totally by surprise with this turn in the conversation.
"I'm talking about putting you out of the way, woman. He couldn't divorce you, but you were in the way of everything we could have achieved. Rupert and I could have been the most powerful men in Europe. Wealth like you've never imagined was there for the taking. You were in the way and you should have been dead, but Rupert wouldn't hear of it. And you – you icy bitch! – you kept at him, pushing him to do what you wanted."
"Your memory seems a bit skewed, Arthur. Rupert only did what he wanted. All I ever wished was for him to be a great King!"
"I could have made him a fabulous King – rich beyond any other monarch. He could have been the crowning glory of the entire Renaldi line," Mabrey hissed. He grabbed the rope binding her wrists and pulled her closer. "You were in the way. You've always been in the way – in my way. But no longer. Now I can take whatever I want from you. You've got no one left to protect you."
She opened her mouth to reply, but the words were lost as he yanked the rope, pulling her body into his and covering her mouth with his own hot, wet flesh. His long, flicking tongue pushed its way into her still open cavity and sent shock waves of repulsion through her with its every touch. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She tried to catch a breath and he pushed the kiss still deeper.
Finally she used the only weapon she had. She bit him and pulled away as hard as she could. He released her abruptly, allowing her momentum to carry her to the ground. Unable to use her arms to catch herself, she fell hard and caught the sharp edge of an empty wine rack in the small of her back. She tried to swallow the pain, determined not to cry out.
Lifting the back of her hands to her mouth, she tried to wipe his taste from her lips. "How dare you!" she rasped, her voice cracking with hate.
Mabrey called to Kirk and he and another man stepped in from where they'd been waiting outside the door. At their employer's direction, they grasped Clarisse's arms, hauling her to her feet. They held her fast. Mabrey stepped up close to her again, his expression curled into a sneer. "It obviously wasn't your kiss that Rupert found so enticing," he said. He reached out and grasped her by the throat, relishing the perceptible hardening he felt in his groin when she gasped for air beneath his hand.
The stark reality that she was going to die came into sharp focus for Clarisse. Her mind wrapped itself around that fact, embraced it even. He was going to end her life, but she would never allow him to break her spirit. Nothing he could do would kill her soul.
Drawing herself up as straight as she could, she stared coldly into Mabery's eyes. His hand slipped from her throat. "You don't scare me," she said softly. "And regardless of what you do and what happens to me, you will never win."
Confronted by her icy determination, Mabrey was all but shaking with rage. Before his very eyes she was regaining her control and wresting power from him. The mask of regal disdain was slipping back over her features. The brief sense of power he had felt when she was afraid was ebbing away.
He turned his back on her and marched out of the room. She may have called his bluff, but he had yet to pay all his cards.
"Bring her," Mabrey ordered gruffly as he turned and stomped through the oak doorway and towards the stairs. Kirk propelled Clarisse forward by his grip on her arm. The other men followed along behind them.
They took Clarisse into a first floor room that appeared to be Mabrey's study. The middle of the room was occupied by a large dark wooded desk which matched the deep mahogany paneling. The wall behind the desk supported floor to ceiling bookcases, tastefully decorated with leather bound classics that had probably never been read. Across the room was a huge fireplace with a large portrait of the Viscount hanging above it. It was done in a Napoleonic style – evidently commissioned out of some rampaging sense of self-importance.
One end of the room housed a sitting area with deep leather chairs gathered around a television set. The opposite end held huge windows overlooking the sea. Clarisse immediately went to the windows, eyes straining towards the dim horizon. She knew there was nothing to see there, but it didn't stop her from scanning the waves.
"Please do be seated," Mabrey said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Clarisse turned to see him indicating she should be seated on the leather sofa. She crossed the room but instead sat in a chair. Mabrey picked up the remote and turned on the television.
"I thought we all might enjoy the morning news, Your Majesty," he said. Clarisse was started to realize that it had been hours since they had taken Joseph to the sea. Then Mabrey motioned to Vincent. "Have one of your men check the perimeter of the house. Make sure there are no signs of anyone snooping around. We can't afford to have any trouble while we're this close."
Vincent indicated to Max that he should make the rounds. The rest of them settled down to watch the television.
"Eggs with Elsie" had been pre-empted by a more serious news team. Clarisse recognized the anchors from the evening news program. The anchors had evidently been up all night, covering the kidnapping. They were in the middle of an interview with a former member of the palace's housekeeping staff – a mousy little woman Clarisse had no memory of. The former maid was answering questions regarding possible threats to the Queen's safety and obviously making up her answers from whole cloth. The only information she managed to convey with any sense of certainty was the Queen's preference for a heavy thread count in her sheets and the fact that she didn't like pear tea. The interviewer couldn't help but looked relieved when he was interrupted by his colleague with the news that the palace was issuing a statement.
They switched to a live view of the throne room.
Clarisse could see Pierre and Sebastian Motaz as well as a few of the more senior members of parliament lined up along the deep violet curtain that had provided a backdrop for many of her press conferences over the years.
The camera panned to follow her son as he approached the podium. As it moved, it captured the anguished face of Charlotte who stood off to one side of the assembled dignitaries. She thought she saw a look pass between Charlotte and Pierre – trying to provide mutual support. Her breath caught in her throat and tears burned her eyes. She was fully aware that these few flickering images might be the last time she ever saw them.
Pierre gripped the edges of the podium and took a deep breath. He addressed the cameras and his face, drawn and tense, filled the screen.
"As you know, her Majesty, Queen Clarisse, was the victim of an apparent assassination attempt and is now missing. The palace is hopeful that Her Majesty is still alive, as no—" Here Pierre flinched and closed his eyes briefly before continuing. "No body has been found.
"For the moment, the government rests safely in the hands of Prime Minister Motaz and the executive committee of parliament. Crown Prince Philippe has been summoned from American is on his way back to Genovia.
"I know her Majesty would want me to reassure her subjects that they are in good hands during this time of crisis. There will be no disruption in the business of government even as we continue our efforts to return Queen Clarisse to her throne."
Pierre looked down at the podium momentarily. When he raised his face to the cameras again, tears shone in his eyes. "I have a personal statement to make as well. To whomever is holding my mother: Return her now. She has done nothing but good for this country and whatever your purpose, it could not be helped by injuring such a beloved and benevolent ruler. Give her back to us. Please. Whatever injustice you feel has been committed against you cannot be righted by hurting either Mother or her bodyguard Joseph. Don't make this situation worse." Tears trailed down his face now. "And Joe – if you are out there and can hear my voice; keep her safe. Keep her safe, my friend. Yourself as well." Pierre quickly wiped away his tears and looking into the camera with renewed intensity. "I love you, Mother. We all do. Take courage."
With those final words, Pierre stepped away from the microphones and the view switched back to the newsroom studio.
Clarisse had managed to hold her emotions in check until she heard her son ask Joseph to keep her safe. The horrible emptiness she felt at the thought that she would never feel his hand at the small of her back ever again or connect with his gaze across a crowed room, threatened to overwhelm her. Tears trembled hot and heavy behind her eyelids, threatening to spill over and down her cheeks. She couldn't help but feel tremendously proud of her son and the poise he had exhibited at such a difficult time. Hopefully Philippe would be able to follow his brother's example.
Returning her attention to the room and its occupants, her anger burned away the remaining tears. Mabrey was sitting behind his desk, glowering at the television screen. He felt Clarisse's glare and turned his gaze toward her. "Benevolent ruler? Beloved?" He practically snarled at her. "What have you ever done, other than stand in the way of your King? If your son wasn't such a selfish, sniveling piece of –"
"Stop!" She yelled and pushed herself out of the chair. Vincent moved to the edge of his seat, watching the Queen closely. Kirk and the others turned their attention from the television to watch Clarisse and Mabrey.
Clarisse leaned across the desk from the Viscount, the blue of her eyes darkening with rage. "You claim to be so incensed by whatever it is you think I did to Rupert. And now you're on some sort of maniacal power trip that you've fed by taking me captive. Well, so be it. But by God, you will leave my children out of this! Your quarrel is with me, not them!"
Mabrey unconsciously pushed back in his chair in the face of her onslaught. "This is more than a mere quarrel! This is--!"
"I don't care what this is! But it's nothing to do with my sons," she hissed at him and turned on her heel to walk over to the windows. As she looked unseeingly at the view outside, she breathed deeply, trying to reign in the anger coursing through her body. She couldn't afford to lose control. Anger would only get in the way at this point.
She could hear voices of the others in the room, but paid no attention to what was being said. Instead, her gaze focused on the horizon, the point where the sky met the sea. Her breath hitched in her throat as she realized she was staring at Joseph's grave. Time and tide had by now swept his body away, probably never to be found.
Clarisse didn't realize it, but the tide had turned.
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A/N Y'all know that I like happy endings, right?