For all the joy you brought to my life . . .

1983

"Father, please try to understand!" their son, Pierre, implored. "I have a calling." He was obviously trying very hard to remain calm, but Rupert and Pierre had always had a rocky relationship.

"A calling?" the King mocked. "You are twenty-one years of age. You have a duty, sir. A duty to Genovia!"

Noting the color rising in Rupert's cheeks, Clarisse rose from her seat near the window and moved closer to father and son. She didn't want to intervene, but neither did she want to see this come to blows. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Joseph standing a bit more lightly on his feet as well. After almost five years in the palace, most of it at the side of the King or the soon-to-be invested Crown Prince, he could certainly read their moods. She saw Joseph lean toward Pierre, then evidently think better of it.

He cleared his throat. "The car is waiting, Your Majesty. We'll be late."

"Hmpf!" Rupert grunted. "The King is never late."

"Of course, sir," Joseph said in his flat, yet oddly soothing voice, "I had forgotten."

"Forgotten? You seem to have forgotten that this is MY son." Rupert turned the force of his frustration to Joseph. "My son, who wishes to hide himself in a monastery instead of taking up his responsibilities to his people." He waved his hands, dismissing Pierre. "We will discuss this more later. Let's go," he added to Joseph.

As the two men strode down the corridor, Clarisse heard Joseph's soft and intense voice. "Rico, with all due respect, you do have two sons. The boy doesn't mean to hurt you."

Pierre settled heavily into the chair Clarisse had recently vacated. "It'll be all right, Mother," he whispered. "Joe will fix it."

"I beg your pardon?" Clarisse eyed her son speculatively. After nearly five years she was no closer to solving the mystery of Joseph Del Lago. The thought that her son might have a piece of the puzzle was surprising. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"If there's anyone that Father will listen to," Pierre explained, "it's Joe."

"Why does he call your father 'Rico'?" she asked suddenly.

"You don't know?" At her negative shake of the head, he continued glumly, "Me either, I was hoping someone did. He always changes the subject when I ask him."

"You and Joseph . . . talk?"

"From time to time," Pierre responded, rather evasively she thought.

She mulled that development over. She had never considered Joseph apart from Rupert. Certainly he did occasionally accompany one of the boys. He had escorted Pierre to his university quarters each term and routinely checked in on security matters there. And surely he must have some sort of social obligations – friends, a family even? And yet she had never before considered it. He was so intrinsically tied up with Rupert in her mind. Did he even live in the palace or in town? It suddenly troubled her that she didn't know even the most basic facts about the man. Except, of course, that he was always watching her, and yet . . . not.

Clarisse knelt carefully before her son, taking his hands. "Pierre, I want you to be happy, you must know that."

He nodded slowly, taking a deep breath.

"But your investiture as Crown Prince is next week," she bargained. "Could you not at least try, for your father's sake?"

"It would be a lie, Mother," he quietly explained. "I can't do that."

"Could you not serve God as a King as well as you could as a priest?" She struggled to keep her voice calm and even. Oddly, she was quite proud of Pierre for standing his ground with Rupert, for being true to himself and his calling, even if he was abandoning the duty she had drilled into him from the cradle.

"Maybe someone else could, Mother, but I think it would break me to try." He looked deeply into her eyes as though begging her – what, understanding, forgiveness, acceptance? "Have you ever wanted something so badly, it was like you could smell it with every fiber of your being, and it smelled better than anything you've ever even imagined eating, but you weren't allowed to taste it? That's what it's been like."

"I guess . . . I guess not," she answered, rather lamely to her own ears.

"Philippe will make a far better king, Mother." He patted her hand and rose. She stood beside him, placing her hand along his cheek.

"But I will miss you, Pierre," she said softly.

She settled once more into the chair by the window when Pierre left. Had she ever felt so passionate about anything? To feel so strongly about something that you would risk the anger of those who love you most must be a wonderful and frightening thing, she thought. And, of course, that was it – she did feel passionately about her children and their futures, she always had. But since no one had ever kept her from them, she hadn't ever felt the kind of ache Pierre seemed to be going through. And she felt quite strongly about her duty to the crown and her people. Fortunately for her, her desires and her duties matched up quite well. And Pierre had been right – Philippe would make a better king, with a bit more training. They would bring him home from his university in America at the end of the next term, enroll him in a school nearby, and begin in earnest. Pierre was far too introspective to be a strong king; he was too much like . . . well, but it was true. He was too much like her, while Philippe definitely favored Rupert in both appearance and temperament. And so it was a very good thing that she had married royalty and not been born to it; the responsibilities of ruling would never come to her.

"Good evening, Your Highness," Joseph welcomed Pierre into the small library near his personal quarters.

"Joe," the prince acknowledged. He wandered about the room for several minutes, periodically glancing at Joseph, who sat by a crackling fire, quietly reading.

"My father hasn't asked for me," Pierre said hesitantly as he chose a volume from the shelf.

"Hmm." Joseph turned a page.

Pierre took an overstuffed chair opposite Joseph and opened his own book. "He did say we would talk more later."

"Hmm." Joseph turned another page and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?" Pierre asked with a somewhat plaintive attempt at humor.

"I would invite you try." Joseph closed his book with a loud snap. Pierre jumped, his tome falling forgotten to the floor. Joseph winced, and changed his tack slightly. "How long have you felt this way?" he demanded.

"You know," the prince reminded him, sounding more like a spoiled child than a Crown Prince. "We've talked about it for years."

"Yes, Highness," Joseph insisted. "Nearly every night that we have both spent in this palace you've told me. You've called me from university; you've written copious letters on the subject. You've begged, pleaded, argued, and cajoled me regarding this and countless other matters. Have you ever spoken to your father about it?"

"No . . ." Pierre began, "he wouldn't . . ."

"No! You wait until the investiture ceremony is planned, the announcements made, the invitations sent. How did you expect him to react?"

"I thought you understood. I thought you were my friend." Pierre leaned forward in his chair, suddenly argumentative.

"This isn't about me, Highness!" Joseph all but slammed his book on the low table before him. Seeing the fire in Pierre's eyes, he softened. "Pierre, you may not see your duty to God and country the same way your parents think you should, but you do at least owe them some basic courtesy. In your father's eyes, you are getting ready to publicly abandon him. He needs time to prepare for that."

"But, Philippe . . ." Pierre sat back, somewhat chastened.

"Yes, yes, Philippe will do his part. Of that I have no doubt." Joseph returned his attention to his book. "You should have warned him," he said after a few quiet moments.

"I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Joseph answered curtly. "Now," he continued more softly, "which seminary does the archbishop recommend? I'll need to assess security concerns. You might be a priest forever, but you're still a prince, Melchizadek notwithstanding."

"I can go?" Pierre's voice cracked slightly. "I mean, thank you, Joe. I appreciate your help in this matter." He composed himself, taking on as much regal bearing as he could muster.

Joseph chuckled, but genuinely rejoiced to see the delight in the boy's eyes. Not that he felt comfortable looking in those eyes for very long – they were her eyes.

"Well, just remember that when I come to you for confession in a few years," he quipped. "I'll expect a little lenience as compensation." He winked.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Now," Joseph shifted gears, "what's the buzz around the palace tonight?"

"Father's giving Philippe a DeLorean for his birthday next month. That means your job just got a whole lot harder." Pierre retrieved his book from the floor.

"Your father knows what he's doing; a Delorean looks faster than it really is. And by now, Etienne, my favorite mechanic, has disabled a couple of gears. Prince Philippe will be lucky to get his fancy car over 60 km/hr." Joseph dismissed the car with a wave of his book. "What are you reading?"

"T. H. White, The Once and Future King. What about you?"

"The Rise of the Holy Roman Empire. Interesting, yes?"

"Too much coincidence for me," Pierre replied. "I'm going to call it a night, Joe. Thanks again," he added as he reached the door.

Joseph stared into the hallway for several moments after the prince had left. He had been expecting the boy to make an appearance this evening. True, they met often in this small library, but he had anticipated having to help fight this particular battle for Pierre for some months now. Rico didn't understand his son's calling, but in the end, he did respect it. Though Joseph had little doubt that the King's respect would have been far less forthcoming if he hadn't had a spare son in his hip pocket.

But Pierre was going to have to learn to fight his own battles. He was right in a way – things were about to get a lot harder for Joseph. Of course, little could Pierre suspect that Philippe's new car was the smallest of his friend's concerns. With the distraction of the princes removed, Joseph had little faith in his ability to rein in the growing attraction he felt for their mother. The Queen. Another man's wife. His best friend's wife. And it wasn't just attraction. It had started as simple lust – overpowering at times, but more or less manageable. At some point in the last year or so it had become something else, something more. Something a lot like love. It was warmth and affection and liking and a desire to protect and serve. She was rapidly becoming his reason for being – in the palace and on the planet. Just thinking about her now gave him a profound sense of loss – for something he'd never actually had. He had to put an end to it; leave the palace, leave Rico before he did something royally stupid and mangled their friendship beyond all hope of repair.

And still, as always, the first person he wanted to confide in – other than Clarisse herself – was Rico. He was convinced that if he could actually work up the nerve to tell Rico that he was madly, passionately, hopelessly, eternally in love with his wife, then Rico would know what to do. Of course, knowing what to do might involve Joseph being hung from the palace gates. He would almost welcome even that closure. The thought of forty more years of gaping loneliness ahead was fast becoming unbearable. Five years of unintentional torture from Her Majesty was quite enough.

If only he could, in truth, talk to Rico. If he could share his burdens as easily as Rico still did with him, as he himself used to do. He took in his surroundings, grateful to have so many of his own things about him. Leaving would be no easy task, but he and Rico had parted before . . .

1958

The day had been incongruously bright and cheerful. Joseph inhaled deeply, almost retching on the lush, moist, flower-scented air. Larks were twittering in the trees behind them; the grass was a deep, truly verdant green; the entire world seemed to rejoice in the sheer exhilaration of being alive. That was wrong. Today should not be bright and cheerful; the world should show more respect.

He held himself together only barely. Of course, he had known it would happen someday, but 'someday' had come all too soon. He schooled his features to inscrutability as the priest exchanged a few words with Sal and prepared for the next stage of the service.

And where was Rico? Why hadn't he come? Joseph had sent word to him at the address Rico had assured would reach him quickly and privately. Granted, Rico had to be far more circumspect in his outings beyond the palace walls these days. At twenty-four and recently graduated from Cambridge he was taking on more and more duties, beginning to represent his father and his country in an official capacity. But he should be here, Joseph quietly fumed. Some things were more important than trade negotiations.

And then, suddenly, as the priest's comforting Latin droned across the yard, there he was. He was wearing dark glasses and a brown fedora pulled low over his face, and despite the warm spring day, he wore a raincoat with the collar turned up. But Joseph had seen him in enough disguises over the years to recognize him in a clown's costume. The two young men nodded to each other; Rico held to the fringes of the mourners until the graveside ceremony ended.

As the other guests dispersed, Joseph clapped Sal on the back and made his way toward Rico.

"I got your note," Rico said, his voice hushed and almost broken. "What happened?"

"Don't you watch the news?" Joseph asked, staring out across the cemetery.

Rico was clearly at a loss, and then groped toward an answer. "The fight at the bar? I heard something about that; it's not like murders happen very often in Pyrus."

Joseph snorted.

"How are you holding up? And Sal? Is there anything I can do?" Rico reached out toward Joseph's shoulder.

"He was the closest thing to a father I ever knew," Joseph murmured. "And my own brother killed him."

"That was Diego?" Rico placed his hand firmly on his friend's shoulder. "Oh, Joe, I . . ."

Joseph shrugged off the comfort and stepped away. "Senor G was walking my mother home. A few of the Hermanos were harassing her a little outside of Andre's. Senor asked them to stop. He told them to stop. You know how he is. Was."

"Your mother? I know Diego wasn't a model son -- but his own mother?"

"Diego wasn't there at first. He saw Senor pushing back against those idiots – he always stood up to them, and they never liked it! Diego pulled a knife. Senor G threw Diego against the wall. He died almost instantly; hit his head. He's right over there." He nodded toward a fresh grave on the other side of the churchyard. "Senor took a couple of days. I thought you'd come sooner." Joseph's voice wavered as he struggled to maintain the impassivity that was his only anchor.

"I'm sorry," Rico mumbled, no longer the confident, dynamic prince in the newspapers. "I'm here now; what can I do?"

"I don't know," Joseph admitted. "I hurt. All the time. I don't know what to do. My mother can barely function, but I . . . I can't stay here, Rico."

Rico grabbed his friend by both shoulders and forced eye contact. "Come home with me," he implored. "You can go to school, or we'll get you a job. Bring your mother; we'll take care of her."

Joseph glanced around the now deserted cemetery. "Rico, it's not that simple. It's not like I'm some long lost cousin from Lichtenstein. What would you tell people?"

"I'd tell them that you're my long lost--"

"What would you tell your father?" Joseph interjected quickly.

Rico deflated. "I don't know."

"I can't stay, Rico." Joseph shook his head as though negating the last week's events. "I'm eighteen; I need to get away from here for a while."

"Joe," Rico's voice was stern, "you said I'd always know where to find you. I can't help if I--"

"I don't want your help!" Joseph turned away, flinging his arms out to encompass the neighborhood, the town, the country. "I need to get away, Rico. Away."

"Where will you go?"

"I'm going to follow Senor G and join the navy – the Spanish navy. Lots of good history there." He chuckled wistfully.

"What about your mother?"

Joseph sighed sadly. "Sal's promised to look after her. I just . . . I just can't right now."

"I'll help whether you want it or not. Don't worry about your mother, Joe."

"Thank you," Joseph whispered, resigned. "There is one other thing," he added tentatively.

"He was my teacher, too, Joe," Rico insisted. "He taught me more than all the others together. What can I do?"

"He left most of his things to me, some to you. All those books," Joseph murmured reverently. "I can't take very many with me, but I don't want to lose them. Could you--?"

"I'll keep it all safe, Joe," he promised, "until you come back for them. But you have to promise me something."

Joseph lifted an eyebrow, inquiring.

Rico took him by the shoulders again. "I may not be king yet, but you, sir, are to consider yourself the king's man. I give you leave to follow your heart, but when I call for you, when I tell you that I need you, you will come home. You still have . . . you still have one brother who needs your help, too."

"I'm no prince, Rico." He lifted his eyes to meet his friend's, his brother's.

"Well, you're no prize either, amigo, but I wouldn't want to lose you." Rico took him by the shoulders to lead him out of the cemetery, but Joseph stopped, pulled back, and offered his hand.

"Your Highness," he whispered intensely, "when you need me, I will be there."