18 October 1958
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Lucien said, shifting uncomfortably as he knelt on the hard bench in the confessional booth. His hands were trembling, and if the old priest could have seen through the screen that separated them he undoubtedly would have noticed that his new king's eyes were a little wild. Lucien could not abide tight spaces, and this one carried with it the added grief of isolation and guilt, the reminder of the restraints and the comforts of the faith that had chafed him, abandoned him, the faith he had turned his back on so long before.
"It has been, oh, about twenty years since my last confession." Lucien rubbed absently at his beard as he tried to do the maths; he had taken confession in Singapore, he was sure, before the Japanese arrived, but he could not say precisely when.
To his credit, the priest did not balk or bluster at that particular revelation. Lucien could not see the man, did not know to whom he spoke, but he had requested, quite bluntly, that his confession not be heard by Father Emory, the stern-faced man who had been praying over his father's bedside the night that he died, the night that Lucien's whole world had shattered. He did not know this Father Emory well, but he knew that he did not care for the man's hard, judgemental eyes, or the way he had insolently lingered in that place after Lucien asked him to go. It might have been too much to hope that he might get along with any priest, but the voice that drifted to him through the screen was almost kindly as the priest gave his customary response.
"What sins have you committed, my son?"
Lucien did not laugh at the absurdity of the question, but it was a very near thing. He wanted nothing so much as to flee, rise to his feet and race out of the confessional, out of the cathedral, out into the autumn sunshine where he could breathe deeply and stretch out his arms. The booth was small, and he felt like a giant stuffed into a breadbox, felt his shoulders and hips brushing against the wood of his enclosure everytime he shifted. His knees ached, and his heart ached, and he did not think he would find comfort in this place. And yet, he had no choice. Duty compelled him to kneel, to offer his sins and his contrition to the priest while the palace guards kept watch outside.
The Earl Marshal and his office had arranged the whole affair, with almost military precision. Calls had been made and lodging arranged for the various visiting dignitaries. Rites and rituals quite beyond Lucien's understanding had been undertaken deep within the belly of the cathedral, and all the kingdom had been plunged into mourning. The schedule for the day had been laid out before him; a maid brought him breakfast in his suite, and then his valet arrived and helped to fasten him into his new black suit. The motorcade had driven him here to the cathedral - which had been positively brimming with security - and Matthew had limped beside him as he made his way across the polished marble floor to the confessional. Thirty minutes had been allocated to him, to unburden himself to the priest, and then he would be escorted away, and the cathedral doors would be opened. And then, at last, his father would be laid to rest, with all the world looking on.
"My sins are too many and too varied to mention," Lucien told him wryly. "To be perfectly honest with you, Father, I'm not interested in making confession. I've only come here to keep the peace, as it were."
There was a moment's silence as the priest processed those words, and Lucien began to doubt the wisdom of his radical honesty. No matter how he might disdain the church, how he might doubt its teachings, he could not quite bring himself to spit in the face of the traditions that had formed the backbone of his upbringing. He had crossed himself when he reached the font, and he would not lie to a priest while kneeling in the confessional. Very few of his childhood superstitions still held sway over him, but while he was not entirely certain that he would be struck by lightning on the spot for having made such a transgression, he was not willing to risk it.
"You have chosen to bow to tradition, my son?" the priest asked him.
In more ways than one, Lucien thought.
"The Earl Marshal told me it's customary, under the circumstances. And I'd rather not start a fight with him, so early in my tenure."
He had rather deliberately refrained from using the word reign; he did not like to think of himself lording over other people, ruling them, though he knew full well that would be precisely his task, for all the rest of his days. He had been back home for just over a fortnight, and he had not yet grown accustomed to the weight of that shackle around his neck.
"I think perhaps that was a piece of wisdom on your part," the priest told him. "The Earl Marshal is a good friend to have. And if you will not confess, perhaps I might still provide some service to you, while we wait for the time to pass."
Lucien made a mental note to ask for the priest's name later; he found himself warming to the man, despite the circumstances. He was grateful for such an offer, for his heart was full to bursting with questions, and there seemed to be no one who could answer him.
"Did you counsel my father?"
"I spoke with your father often," the priest said evenly. "It is forbidden to me to reveal the nature of those conversations, of course."
"Of course." Secrets upon secrets; such was the nature of the church, and of the nobility. Still, he found the thought of sharing his burdens with someone who was sworn to keep his secrets somewhat comforting. "Perhaps you could counsel me as well, then."
"What troubles you, my son?"
This time Lucien did laugh, just a little; it would take significantly more than half an hour for him to answer that question in full. It had been asked in good faith, however, and he wanted to make the best use of the time he had been given.
"I'm angry, father," he admitted. "I never wanted to be king."
Those were dangerous words to speak aloud, even to a priest, and Lucien knew it. He needed to say them, however, needed to be honest with himself, and though his sorrow lingered he felt a little bit lighter for having made his confession. After a fashion.
"You don't have to be," the priest pointed out. "No man is without choices in this life. It's just that some of those choices are more difficult than others."
"There is no choice here, father. If I abdicate the crown there will be trouble. There is no one else in my family who can take this burden from me, and without a clear successor there will be violence. I can't do that to our people."
"It seems to me, then, that you have been faced with a choice, and you have made it. You have chosen to set aside your own selfish desires for the good of the realm. Such concern for your people is a good quality in a king."
Lucien chewed on that for a moment. All his life he had disappointed his father, had felt the old man's eyes watching him, even from the other side of the world, weighing him and finding him unworthy of the duty that would be passed to him in time. Thomas had not believed that Lucien would make a good king, and over the years those doubts had bloomed within Lucien's own heart like some terrible, choking weed, and the old priest had hit upon those doubts at once. Yes, Lucien was unsure whether he had the necessary qualities to lead his people well, to protect them, to do right by them, but the old priest seemed to think he'd get along just fine. It was nice to have someone in his corner, but still Lucien remained unsure.
"What else angers you, my son?"
As a small boy Lucien had been convinced that priests could read his mind, that they could with a single look at his face determine his intentions and judge him for them accordingly. It was an uncomfortable thought, but one he could not shake, just now.
"I have lost a great deal," he said carefully. He had lost his family, his wife, his daughter, his dearest friend, had lost his freedom, had lost his hope, lost his faith, and the shocking total of those losses had left a bitter taste in his mouth, particularly now, when he felt himself so entirely alone and out of control of his life.
"So must we all, from time to time."
Lucien gritted his teeth, biting back hateful words; he wanted to point out that the priest had voluntarily taken an oath of chastity, forsworn love and family in favor of devotion to his God. What could such a man know about the terrible, howling loss that roared through Lucien's chest each time he thought of his wife and child, swallowed by the boundless cruelty of the sea?
"Your grief will have its place, my son," the priest continued. "The story of your life is not yet complete. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and we cannot hope to understand his plan in full. We are all put here on this earth for a purpose, and I think you have not yet achieved yours."
Strangely, as the priest spoke Lucien found his thoughts drifting to Mrs. Beazley. Jean, Matthew had called her, though Lucien had been trying rather hard to forget that, knowing that he would never be allowed the familiarity of calling her by her given name. She had suffered much, too, he knew now, had endured a difficult childhood, a difficult life, lost her husband just as he had lost Mei Lin. And yet still she could smile at him, could speak to him softly, could rise each day and do her duty with grace, without complaint. Mrs. Beazley had made room in her heart for her grief, rather than allowing herself to be consumed by it; perhaps it was time for Lucien to do the same. Perhaps it was time for him to forgive his father, to forgive himself, and set his eyes on the future. Mrs. Beazley had made a new life for herself, and found some happiness in it; perhaps, in time, Lucien would as well.
"Maybe you could put in a good word for me, Father," he said. Lucien no longer believed in God, but he was open to accepting help from any quarter, at present.
"You could say a prayer yourself," the priest pointed out. "You are here already. You could make your confession, and unburden yourself to God, and ask him to guide you through this trial."
"God stopped listening to my prayers a long time ago," Lucien told him, thoughts of Mrs. Beazley forgotten in favor of the sudden wash of memories, dark and black. The stink of the camp, the smoke rising off the smoldering ruins of the city that had been his home, the sweltering, unbearable isolation of the too-small cell where he'd dangled from the edge of his own sanity for over a month. He had prayed to God, then, but no aid had come, and he had long since stopped believing that it would.
"Just because you do not receive the answer you want does not mean that no answer was given. Perhaps it is you who has stopped listening, my son."
Those words echoed through Lucien's mind throughout the rest of that interminable day. The old priest had given him much to think about.
"He looks quite handsome, doesn't he?" Mattie whispered.
Jean shushed her, appalled by Mattie's brash words and her own private agreement in almost equal measure. They were gathered, along with most of the staff, around the small television in Matthew's office. Very few of the staff had their own televisions, but there was one here, and Matthew had - in an unusual display of camaraderie - given them permission to converge here in his absence, to watch as the old king was laid to rest, and the new one was revealed to the kingdom for the first time. Oh, everyone who stood with her in that place had met the new king, come to recognize him, if not become acquainted with him, but their friends and neighbors beyond the castle wall had not seen hide nor hair of the man for the last twenty years.
And oh, but he did look handsome. The cameraman had locked upon the new king as he stood tall and proud at the top of the cathedral steps, speaking to some visiting dignitary while the rest of the funeral goers queued up behind them, eager to pay their respects, eager to stand - if only for a moment - in the new king's shadow. His beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair carefully styled, and he wore a dark suit, one that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the span of his chest, one that made him look ten feet tall and powerful, as he was, as he should be. Jean watched him, felt the jostling of arms and legs as cooks and guards and maids all shifted and swayed around her, speaking quietly to one another, vying for a good position in front of the telly. She watched him, and thought of the quiet conversation they'd had in the kitchen a fortnight before, thought of the last time she'd spoken to him, thought of how desolate he had seemed. This would be a difficult day for him, of that she was certain; it was never easy for anyone to lay a parent to rest, and their new king would have it harder than most, given his long estrangement from his father, given the responsibility he had inherited. Poor Lucien, she thought, but almost immediately her cheeks flushed scarlet and she berated herself for even thinking such a thing; he was not Lucien, could not ever be Lucien, not to her. He was your Majesty, or sir, and that was that.
"Right, you lot," she said as the newscaster's voice droned on and on, and Lucien - the king - made his way down the cathedral steps towards his waiting car. "Back to work, then. All those people are coming this way, and they'll be hungry when they get here."
There was some grumbling but no outright protest; they all knew that she was right, and they respected her too much to speak to her unkindly. They trooped out from that place, all of them well aware of their duties, their role, their designated place in the order of things. Every man and woman within that castle had their own part to play, their own position to fill, and Jean was no different. As she walked along Mattie reached out and took Jean's arm, smiling winsomely beneath the warm autumn sunshine, and Jean let her, patted her young friend's hand and tried to forget the way her heart had yearned, watching as her king stood straight-backed and handsome beneath that same sun. Jean knew her place, and she would be happy in it. She had no other choice.