Author's Note: I know it's been a while since this has been updated, and I'm very sorry. I'm also sorry that these chapters just keep getting longer and longer. This is one of my personal favorites though, and contains one of the scenes that first led me to begin writing this story. I do have most of the story fleshed out in my mind, if not yet committed to electrons. I assure you, it will -- eventually -- be completed. It is however, very much a work in progress; any comments, suggestions, and areas for improvement are much appreciated.
For every dream you made come true . . .
1984
He knows. Clarisse regarded the gardener with veiled anxiety as she ambled toward the gazebo near the center of the vast palace gardens. It was early spring and very little to delight the senses as yet, but Clarisse had always appreciated seeing the potential each year, knowing there were tender shoots on the verge of bursting through the slowly softening soil. But this year she was troubled. Ever since she and Joseph and Philippe had returned from America just before Christmas she had felt out of sorts. She hoped that most of the staff attributed her suddenly sullen mood to the 'situation' with Prince Philippe, as the back corridor whispers dubbed it.
Philippe's marriage and divorce were not widely known, but everyone in the palace, indeed the country, was aware of the young prince's dramatic change over the course of the last two years. Where he had been carefree and engaging before he left for school in America, he was now a very driven young man, determined to pour every ounce of his being into fulfilling his duty to the crown, to his people. Clarisse would weep for the loss of the boy he had been if she didn't feel so responsible for Philippe's closing himself off from family, from friends, from love.
And here he was, doing it to her, too. It wasn't her fault. It was Rupert and Joseph who had bullied her son into leaving his wife and unborn child behind in America. Yet somehow, Rupert had been able to turn the tables and emerge as the closest thing Philippe had to a friend. He showered his son with gifts – cars, horses, technological trinkets; all of which Philippe acknowledged graciously and then ignored. He monopolized the young man's time, filling his days with 'King lessons.' The same sort of 'lessons' he had privately groused about in the early days of their marriage when he'd received them from King Christophe. She knew it wasn't malicious on Rupert's part, but she felt unaccountably betrayed, as though he had stolen her son from her. Philippe now seemed to blame her for the decision and the responsibility thrust upon him so suddenly. But it wasn't her fault.
The gardener smiled as she passed him and dipped his head in salute. He knows, she thought again. They all know.
Shivering slightly in the cool air, she thrust her hands deeper into her coat pockets and turned back toward the palace. When she reached the ballroom doors, a maid who had been in the process of cleaning the glass held the door open for her. "Thank you," Clarisse murmured, though her mind shrieked, she knows!
She ambled not quite aimlessly through the long corridors. While she had no clear destination in mind, she did have a goal: find Rupert. Just that day she had received a letter from Pierre, enclosed with a letter from the dean of his seminary. Pierre was happy, and he was excelling. She felt at a loss as to whether Rupert would take either as good news, but she needed him to understand that their son was not 'wasting his life in a monastery.' He had been called to a still higher duty than the crown and they should be proud of him.
She poked her head in Rupert's office, but there was no sign of him. Down the hall to the library – not there either. Around the corner to Jorge's office – not a soul in sight. Now that was odd. Rupert's personal secretary generally spent the hour before supper reviewing the day's work and making adjustments to the next day's itinerary. There was noise coming from the next hallway. It almost sounded like . . . cheering?
Clarisse made her way toward a part of the palace she rarely frequented. Shortly ahead was a set of double doors leading to an area that composed the better part of the second floor of this wing. At one time it had been a general recreation area, but shortly before she and Rupert had been married he had converted it to a full scale boxing gym. Peeking through the door, it looked even larger than she remembered.
There were boxing bags hanging from the ceiling and all sorts of exercise contraptions around the outskirts of the room. In the center stood a boxing ring, elevated a bit above floor level. A small crowd of onlookers, mostly security personnel, but a few others – she noted Jorge and that new man in Parliament, Lord Harmony -- surrounded the ring cheering on both of the combatants. Clarisse inhaled sharply and then caught herself, backing out the door and crossing to the other side of the hallway.
Out of sight, out of mind? Not by half. The image of the two men was seared into her mind, and, it seemed, as she fought to regain control of her breathing, into the rest of her body as well. Rupert and Joseph, both shirtless and wearing shorter, tighter pants than she had ever seen either one of them in before, had certainly looked like they were enjoying pummeling one another. They must have been going at it for some time because both had been covered in sweat.
Placing one hand against the wall, she breathed deeply, rhythmically, and tried to banish the image from her mind. Focus on Rupert; that was the way. While certainly fit, he'd been breathing hard and dripping sweat. And although her husband's body was certainly well-proportioned, it had never aroused to her the passionate abandon she had once dreamed of. Joseph, now . . . Joseph's hard chest rippled into his stomach and fairly glistened with moisture. Having never seen him so bared, she was utterly unprepared for the depth of desire stirred merely by the sight of him. She ran her hands down her sides, smoothing out imagined wrinkles and hoping to calm herself, but as her fingers brushed beneath her breasts, she found herself longing for Joseph's hands. Oh, dear.
She really had tried to avoid him since their return from America. No sense actively courting disaster after all. And yet, somehow, far too often, she would turn a corner and he would be there. He never approached her, seldom even spoke to her, but every time he nodded his head in greeting, she felt the memory of his hands engulfing her own as they had in New York.
Without conscious thought, she eased the door open again. They were still going at it. They were dancing around each other, bouncing lightly on the balls of their feet, each one taking an occasional jab at the other. She had no idea how one kept score in boxing – did they even keep score? – but Joseph seemed to be winning. Rupert was definitely out of breath, and his punches lacked precision. Joseph kept his hands close to his body, in front of his face, affording her an unimpeded view, except when Rupert was in the way, of his well-toned chest and stomach. She wondered how he would feel beneath her hands . . . no, no, no. Closing her eyes, she let the guilt wash over her. They know, she thought, they all know.
When she opened her eyes again, Joseph was staring into them. Still in the ring, now clenched together with Rupert thumping him over and over in the left side. He gave her a sad smile and then closed his eyes, evidently reaching a decision. With a mighty shove he pulled himself out of his king's grasp and sent two quick jabs to Rupert's jaw. Taking the opening, Rupert landed a mighty blow into Joseph's stomach, causing him to double up and grunt in apparent pain.
"Ma—Majesty," he sputtered, "that's my limit." He backed away further, sagging against the ropes.
"You okay?" Rupert asked him, gasping.
"After a shower and some tape over these ribs – yes," Joseph answered, touching gloves with Rupert.
As both men clambered over the ropes, Clarisse darted back out the half open door and hastened down the hallway. She absolutely would NOT think about Joseph in the shower . . .
"You threw that match!" King Rupert all but shouted as he barreled into the small sitting room the staff had long ago dubbed 'the Spanish library.'
Joseph eyed him warily from his favorite chair by the fire.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Rupert demanded. He lowered himself heavily onto the small sofa next to Joseph's chair. Helping himself to a cup of coffee from the service on the low round table directly in front of the fireplace, he propped his feet on the table and again challenged, "Well?"
"That table's older than you are." Joseph gave him a pointed look, and Rupert made the small concession of removing his shoes.
"It was Senor G's," Joseph added, marking the place in his book and setting it aside. He leaned forward and added a dollop of whiskey to Rico's coffee.
"And he put his feet up frequently," Rupert insisted. "Quit trying to divert me. Tell me why you threw it."
Knowing his friend would ask, Joseph had thought of little else over the late supper he had recently finished. Although he had his answer ready, he hesitated slightly. While the answer he had prepared was valid, it wasn't entirely true. He had never lied to Rico before, and it didn't sit well. He regarded Rico thoughtfully, hoping his look said the answer is so obvious you should have thought of it yourself, and not I'm terrified you're going to see right through me and almost as mad that you haven't done so already.
"It won't do my staff any harm to see me lose to you," he began, the notion becoming more believable as he spoke, "but there's no need to damage your reputation in front of the few nobility that were there. There's more to security than scheduling bodyguards. I have to protect your image as well as your aging, practically decrepit body."
Rico appeared to give the matter some thought. He stood and padded across the room, fingering a small glass-fronted wooden case holding medals from wars long gone.
"I haven't beaten you since we were boys, Joe," he said, giving a pointed stare of his own from the case of medals to his friend. "When I do, I want to know that I won. I don't want it handed to me."
Joseph sighed – in resignation to Rico's point or relief that the real reason remained safely hidden, he wasn't quite sure. "Point taken, Majesty," he said with a respectful nod.
"Cut it out." Rico scowled. "Once or twice a week – at most – I get to come here and pretend as though I'm eighteen years old again. No paperwork, no trade negotiations, no royal rubbish; just you, me, Senor G, and a room full of books. Is that really so much to ask?"
Although he'd always known that, given the choice, Rico would have preferred almost any occupation other than the one he held, it suddenly occurred to him how alike their situations were. Rico felt trapped. With no brothers, he'd never even been able to consider any other life. Perhaps that was a part of his problem with Pierre -- Pierre had had an opportunity for a choice and had run with it.
Joseph, too, felt trapped. He loved Clarisse, of that he no longer had any doubt. But in a very different, and yet oddly similar way, he loved Rico, too. Rico was his oldest friend, in many ways his first real friend other than Senor G. And, by day at least, Rico was also King Rupert, his sovereign, the man to whom he had sworn unwavering fealty. But Clarisse . . . She was everything he wanted for his future, minus that crown she wore a couple of times a month. She was the woman to whom he had sworn, if only in the solitude of his own heart, absolute devotion.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Rico," he said, shaking off his reverie. Joseph gave his old friend an ironic smile. "If you're eighteen, then I'd be twelve. I have no desire to be twelve years old again."
"Spoilsport," Rico muttered.
Inwardly, Joseph cringed. Over the course of the last few months, they had regained the easy camaraderie that had always marked their friendship. That camaraderie had fallen victim to Joseph's support of Pierre the prior summer. And now, just as things were getting back on track, Joseph was tarnishing it in a far more elemental fashion. In order to screen his love for Clarisse, he had lied to Rico. Where would it end?
"I handled it badly with Philippe, didn't I?" Rico asked suddenly.
"Since when did I become your confessor?" Joseph shot back at him, too wrapped up in thoughts of the king's wife to clearly focus on the king himself. That had been Rico's snide comment to him when he had offered counsel and advice about Pierre.
Rico shot him a startled glance.
"I'm sorry," Joseph said sincerely. "My ribs hurt." Another lie. "I didn't mean to say that." True in more ways than one.
"Quit trying to make me feel better," Rico quipped. "Tell me what you think, Joe. You're the only one who really does."
"Yes." It was both agreement and answer.
"That's it? Just 'yes'?" Rico glared at him. "No elaboration? No Senor G-ism to give me a paternal epiphany?"
Joseph downed the last of his coffee and poured another cup, marshalling his thoughts while he doctored the drink. He tapped his book on his thigh as he listed each point. "I think you should have gone to him, though I understand your reasons for making him come to you. The divorce was your idea, but, in the end, Philippe and Helen both agreed to it. I think they would have had a rocky marriage no matter where they'd lived, but they could have run off."
He took a long swallow before continuing. "I think you're a real bastard for allowing the blame to shift to Clarisse. She was more surprised by it than Philippe that night." His words grew more clipped and precise, a sure sign of his ire.
"Please, Joe, don't mince words," Rico sneered.
"Then don't ask for my opinion." Joseph turned back to his book.
The two men sat in uncomfortable yet still companionable silence for several minutes. Rico shuffled through the stack of books on the table, idly pulled one aside, and moved to the other chair directly opposite Joseph's.
"So how do I fix it?" he finally asked.
Joseph glanced up, holding his place with a finger. "With your wife?" He snorted. "I couldn't tell you."
"She'll come around," he said with apparent confidence. "Next to you, she's my best friend."
"Of course." Joseph waited, hoping Rico just needed a sounding board to work things out for himself. He had played psychologist to his king often enough in the last few years. Always before, however, the problem had been a stubborn Member of Parliament, a shifty ambassador, or an exasperating prince. Joseph wasn't prepared to help Rico make up with the love of his own life.
"Flowers and chocolate," he murmured, suddenly feeling he had to suggest something.
Rico looked uncomfortable. He shook his head slowly. "That kind of thing won't work with Clarisse."
"Just because she's not madly in love with you doesn't mean flowers and candy won't work." Joseph insisted. "No woman can resist that."
"What do you . . .?" Rico began and then trailed off. "Well, I would guess you, of all people, would be able to see through our sham of a marriage."
"I know you, and I've come to know her somewhat over the last few years." He sent Rico a flat, telling look. "Your image is safe with me, Rico." And that I am determined to keep true.
"She does like flowers," Rico mused. "Maybe if I put her in charge of redesigning the gardens. Not just a bouquet of flowers, but years of flowers."
"It's healthier than a chocolate factory," Joseph said as he opened his book once again.
After several more minutes of infinitely more comfortable silence, Joseph broached another sensitive topic. "Have you heard from Pierre?"
Rico regarded him with something between suspicion and shock. "Haven't you?"
"I never meant to come between you."
"I know," Rico replied, rubbing his forehead. "I keep reminding myself that when I was his age, I cared more about Senor G's opinion of me than I did my own father's. At least I have the advantage of being able to talk to Pierre's Senor G."
Joseph was stunned. "I never . . . I never quite thought of it that way. That I was Senor G to Pierre."
"How did you see it?" Rico leaned forward, his book slid to one side.
"I was . . . I don't know." Joseph struggled, still working out the ramifications of this perspective. "He just needed someone to listen to him."
"Everyone needs a mentor," Rico pontificated. "Someone who meets you where you are but challenges you to be more."
"There's your Senor G-ism," Joseph said. He paused, thoughtful. "Who's Philippe's mentor?"
"That's part of why I know I handled this so badly. And a large part of why he's floundering so – I think." Rico shifted in his seat, scanning the room. "You see, as strange as it might sound, I think his mentor used to be – Clarisse!" He jerked forward, eyes locked on the doorway.
Joseph turned to the open door. Queen Clarisse stood framed within. Despite her husband's presence, Joseph's heart went out to her. She looked so . . . lost. She seemed a woman bereft of everything she held dear. Given events of the last few months, that was pretty accurate, Joseph mused. And yet she was captivating. She had changed her dress since the afternoon, he noted, and was now wearing a soft yellow silk skirt and blouse that hugged her figure everywhere it was meant to . . . her husband is in the room, man . . . snap out of it! He stood carefully, his back ramrod straight, eyes on the light switch to her left, and motioned toward the sofa.
"Good evening, Majesty," he said softly, as blandly as he could. "Would you care to join us?"
"Oh, I . . ." she faltered, and Joseph wondered if her thoughts resembled his own. "I don't mean to intrude. I was just looking for . . . Rupert." She turned to her husband with a small sigh.
"Nonsense!" Rico's voice was a bit too loud, Joseph thought. "You're never an intrusion, Clarisse. Sit, sit." He gestured to the sofa as well, plumping a pillow for her. "We were just talking about you, actually."
"You were?" Clarisse eyed each man in turn. She looked like a frightened, trapped animal to Joseph. He wondered if Rico could see that. She sat on the very edge of the sofa, as though certain she was less welcome than they professed.
"We were discussing the princes," Joseph clarified as he settled back into his chair, "and so, naturally, your name came up." He struggled to keep his gaze flat and emotionless. How could he not look at her in such an intimate setting? That would seem odder than staring at her. She was so close, though thankfully at the end of the sofa nearer Rico's chair; if she'd been any nearer he could not have stopped himself from reaching for her hand.
Rico snorted. "We were discussing the fact that I'm an ass and Philippe needs a mentor, and still, naturally, your name came up."
Joseph and Clarisse both stared at him in shock. Joseph was at a loss as to which of them was more startled by Rupert's frank confession. Joseph had never heard Rico speak crudely in front of Clarisse, much less with her own name in the sentence. He shot a quick glance in her direction, but now that the initial surprise had worn off, she seemed a bit more calculating than offended.
"Both of you," Rico ordered, "stop playing games with me." Joseph turned a guilty glance from the love of his life to her husband. "I know I've tried to keep the various parts of my life separate, but we all need to put that behind us. I need help from both of you if we're to have any hope of turning Philippe into a decent king someday."
"Well, that's a back handed apology if ever I heard one, Rupert," Clarisse said tartly, though affectionately.
"What, exactly, are you saying, R—Majesty?" Joseph was adrift, uncertain as to where the currents in the conversation were going. Clarisse, oddly, seemed more comfortable now than when she first came in. He determined to take his cues from her.
"Clarisse," Rico stated, waving an arm in Joseph's direction, "meet Joe, my best friend since I was thirteen years old. We sort of went to school together.
"Joe," he continued in the same frank fashion, "meet Clarisse – my wife, not the Queen, not the perfect princess the papers make her out to be, but my good and true friend."
He looked from one to the other. "I really only have two friends, and I need you both. I need for you to be friends, or at least friendly, because the most important thing right now is getting Philippe ready for the crown."
"Are you planning on dying sometime soon?" Clarisse asked with faint sarcasm.
"No," Rupert drew out the word, "but I have a—"
"—responsibility to Genovia," both Joseph and Clarisse chorused with him. They shared an indulgent grin at their mutual friend's overarching sense of duty – a grin laced with a bit more warmth than the joke warranted. Joseph cringed inwardly. It was a faint relief to display his affection for Clarisse in that glance, and yet it was painful, too, for there was so much more he could not show, could not indulge.
"Ah, I see," Rico said shrewdly, "that's how it is, then? I bring you jointly into my council and now you're going to gang up on me?"
Clarisse's features exuded schooled sadness, Joseph thought as he fixed his gaze sternly on the light switch across the room. "No, Rupert," she said softly, "we would never do that."
"I do believe you're right," he said, shooting a puzzled glance from one to the other. "Now, if you'll both excuse me, I'm going to see what Philippe is up to. Somebody has to be the poor boy's friend now that I've pushed him away from the two people who might have helped him most. I really have been an ass about that, Clarisse, and I am sorry." He stood, clapping his hands on his thighs.
"Make Philippe smile again and I'll put paid to it," she said quietly. Setting her coffee cup down, she made to stand also.
"No, stay if you want," Rupert insisted. "Joe knows a lot about befriending boys who've been alienated from their parents." He chuckled as he passed Joseph's chair, patting him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "I'll see you both in the morning."
Tense silence reigned for several minutes after the king left the room.
"Do you think he knows?" Clarisse whispered, strained.
Joseph stared through the still open door. "I really don't know," he answered.
"I should go," she whispered again.
"Hmm," Joseph said, distracted by thoughts of what Rico did or did not know. No, my darling, he almost spoke the words aloud, I should go. I should go far away. I should go before I ruin us all. "Yes, you should," he said instead, not strong enough to leave her.
"I don't want to."
Her voice, petulant yet firm, dejected yet hopeful, moved him, unthinking, to her side. Checking himself as he sat near her on the sofa, he left a few inches of space between them. Deliberately, he took her hand and, bringing it briefly to his lips, intertwined their fingers and rested their joined hands on his thigh.
"As I recall, Clarisse," he spoke her name firmly, emphasizing his use of her name, not a title, "our king has asked for our help." He squeezed her hand, reminding himself not to move any closer, regardless of how much he wanted to. "What can we do to help him help Philippe?'
Clarisse's sigh was almost a groan. "How can you expect me to think about Rupert, or even Philippe, when you're holding my hand like that?"
Joseph looked to his lap, where his thumb was idly stroking across the back of her hand. Chastened, he stilled, but did not release her hand, instead clutching it even more tightly to him. He turned to look deeply into her eyes.
"I've promised him, Clarisse. And yet I break my promise every time I think of you." His eyes bore into her. What was he doing? Was he trying to blame her for his own infidelity? That was absurd; if anyone was to blame, it was he.
He let her hand go with a last gentle squeeze and stood, leaning over her, placing one hand on the arm of the sofa. Again without conscious thought he lowered his head to hers. He paused, their lips scant centimeters apart – he could kiss her now and no one would be the wiser.
"I will protect and guard the King's interests, Clarisse," he murmured intensely, "even from myself." He straightened, regretfully but with resolve, and left the library through a small door in the far corner.
As he closed the door to his private quarters behind him, he struggled to recall the details of his oath to Rico instead of thinking about Clarisse, sitting in the midst of Senor G's library – alone.
1984
It had been the end of Christmas Court, the first day of the new year, and all the nobles of Genovia were on hand at the palace to renew a centuries old tradition. Indeed, most of the palace staff had already done so, offering or restating vows of homage and loyalty to the King shortly after lunch. The department heads made similar oaths along with the nobility in the throne room that evening. The Oathtaking was followed by a grand ball accompanied by the giving of gifts from the royal family.
Joseph stood just inside the door to the right of the throne, watching the various members of the nobility mill about. He quickly made eye contact with those of his security staff in the room. Having attended several of these annual Oathtaking ceremonies, he had expected nothing unusual. There were two new lords taking the Oath for the first time this evening, brothers-in-law, oddly enough – Mabrey was one and Deveraux the other. Deveraux seemed a decent enough sort, going on at length about his infant son; but privately Joseph felt that Mabrey would warrant careful watching; he didn't seem to be cut of the same cloth as his father, a plodding, methodical man given to philanthropy. No, the new Viscount appeared a bit of a schemer in Joseph's estimation.
Nevertheless the evening passed largely without incident. The loudest whispers regarded the whereabouts of Prince Philippe, now the heir presumptive. Joseph was just as happy with the moody prince safely ensconced in his room; the boy was too likely to cause trouble given his emotional state. He had come home, but not altogether willingly. Joseph made a quick mental note to follow up on Helen Thermopolis and her impending child; that was one loose end that would need careful tying off.
Rico was at the top of his game, however. Joseph marveled at just how well Rico excelled at what he called 'playing King.' The daily grind of paperwork and negotiations wearied him – it was nothing but duty, but Rico never failed to impress when it came to the ceremonial end of his job. He was resplendent in his tux draped with a mantle of purple silk and ermine. He sat on the throne as though hewn from the gold and marble monstrosity itself, every inch the King. Joseph stretched his neck, trying to loosen his tie without being obvious.
Clarisse circulated among the throng, thanking many for coming, although in truth they had little choice. Like Rico, she seemed completely at ease. She had no official role in the evening's ceremonies, though she generally stood at Rico's side when the actual oaths were being given and received. She looked stunning, putting forth a good show as always, but to Joseph, having watched her so closely for so many years, it was clear that she was nearly run ragged. His confession in America couldn't have been easy on her. Not for the first time he berated himself for speaking about it. Bad enough he was unfaithful and disloyal in his heart, now he was dragging her into it, too.
Prince Pierre was present as well, though not at his once customary post at his father's left, the post Philippe should have been filling. Pierre wandered about the fringes of the crowd, intentionally emphasizing his changing status by wearing a simple tux with no embellishments. It would be several years before he would don a clerical collar, but Pierre clearly meant to maintain relations with the family while keeping his distance from the crown. Rupert had welcomed the young man civilly when he returned to the palace for the Christmas holidays, but there was little warmth between the two.
Joseph felt the door open behind him and stepped forward, turning to greet the late arrival. His face froze as Prince Philippe strode into the room.
"Good evening, Your Highness," he said flatly.
"I'm not going to cause any trouble, Joe," he replied testily, "if that's what you're implying."
Joseph shook his head. "I was wishing you a good evening, Highness," he said, making firm eye contact with the prince. "Just wishing."
Philippe tugged at the hem of his jacket and surveyed the crowd. "Duty first, right, Joe?" He looked toward Rico, talking animatedly with Lord Crawley and his two burly sons. "That's what Father always says, isn't it?"
"Don't do anything you may be duty bound to regret later, Highness." Joseph left the young man standing and made his way forward where he could catch Rico's eye.
Rico acknowledged him quickly, and then glanced to the right, saw Philippe, and the man actually smiled. There was no hesitation, no anxiety, he was genuinely happy to see his moody, depressed, it's-all-about-me son. Joseph couldn't decide if he should pity Rico or emulate him. Privately, he was convinced that Prince Philippe was a disaster waiting to happen. In the three weeks since their return from the States, Philippe had seemed like a boiler exceeding its pressure limits a bit more each day. A blow out was coming, Joseph was certain; he would prefer it to be a private one.
Rico had been moody himself during most of Christmas Court, casting dark glances at Pierre and Clarisse, and occasionally at Joseph. He had gone out of his way to accommodate Philippe though, spoiling the young man outrageously. Perhaps Rico saw Philippe's presence tonight as the payoff of those efforts. Joseph had begun to wonder if there would ever be a payoff for the rest of them. He had done Rico's bidding with Philippe in America to help heal the rift between them over Pierre, but he still sensed an unreasoning tension from Rico. Unless he knows about Clarisse?
Startled, he jumped at a sudden tap on his shoulder.
"Do you think I can help?" Pierre asked. He handed Joseph a champagne glass. "It's ginger ale," he added, nodding to the glass. "I can see you're on duty."
"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" he quipped in reply. "I've a feeling I'm going to need something a lot stronger before tonight is over."
"That's what I meant." Pierre waved his glass toward his brother. "He can't last much longer. Sooner or later, he's going to explode."
"I think he blames you as much as he does the rest of us," Joseph said. "After all, you're the one who made this necessary."
Pierre looked hurt. It occurred to Joseph that the situation couldn't be much easier on him, knowing that, in all honesty, it was because of him, and yet he couldn't possibly have acted any differently.
"I didn't tell him to divorce the girl," Pierre retorted.
"I know, I know." Joseph tried to soothe. "I'm sorry. That came out badly."
"Here," Joseph said, handing the glass back to Pierre. "Give this to Philippe. See if you can keep him from drinking tonight."
"Looks like you'll be on in a few minutes anyway." Pierre gestured toward the throne where Rico was seating himself with no small amount of flourish. "He sure knows how to put on a show, doesn't he?"
"I'll let you in on a secret." Joseph motioned Pierre closer. "It's his favorite part of the job," he whispered. "Now, go keep your brother out of trouble while I take my place in line."
Joining the rapidly forming queue, Joseph found himself bracketed by Paul Harmony, a relatively unassuming man he'd always liked, and the new Viscount Mabrey, a weasel he was fast coming to find objectionable. Mabrey seemed to regard everything – and everyone – around him in a far too acquisitive manner. He appeared the type who thought he was better suited to the crown than the man wearing it. Joseph reached a hand up to rub behind his left ear, which had begun to buzz faintly in warning. Careful watching, indeed.
Fortunately, Harmony was before Joseph and Mabrey behind, so he only occasionally felt the need to acknowledge the Viscount's presence. As the line slowly advanced, Harmony engaged him in conversations ranging from the growing concern about AIDS, to the revived American space program, to his son's hopeful inclusion on the Genovian Olympic boxing team, to the newest pear wine he had developed. The man was deeper than Joseph had previously given him credit, and he resolved to invite him down to the gym sometime soon.
Shortly, Rico beckoned Lord Harmony forward and Joseph could hear the faint mutter of their exchanged oaths of loyalty and fealty. It struck Joseph as odd that, in this age of democratic process, even a country as politically backward as Genovia would still retain such medieval customs. Of course, Senor G would say that such traditions formed the backbone of their society and paved the way for polite relationships. Or, in the shorter version he'd frequently heard Clarisse use with unruly teenage princes – manners matter. And besides, he confessed privately, it's fun.
Rico stood, pulled Harmony to his feet and clapped him on the back as he motioned Joseph forward. The King's smile had evaporated and he instead wore a troubled, quizzical look. Joseph faced him in front of the throne, but made no move to kneel since Rico remained standing. He fought the urge to tug at his left ear, but darted quick glances in either direction, alert for danger.
King Rupert turned, glancing at Clarisse standing to the right of the throne. His lips stretched into a grim line and he nodded, as though confirming something for himself. Inwardly, Joseph panicked, the source of his premonition now clear. He knows and he's going to expose us here in front of God and everybody. Outwardly, he stared fixedly at the royal crest behind the throne. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the King beckon to Pierre, who had Philippe in reluctant tow. Out of the opposite corner, he watched Clarisse blanch and then quickly smother her concern. Madre de Dios, no, he's not that stupid!
"Our dear and faithful friends," Rico's voiced boomed, easily heard at the back of the hall when he chose to make it so. He paused and gave Joseph an unreadable look.
I could read him like a book when I was seven! What on earth is he thinking that I can't get a bead on him now?
"There is a matter that has gone unresolved in this palace for many years now." Rico's right hand crashed onto Joseph's shoulder; it was all he could do not to wince.
Oh, hell . . .
"Some of you are, perhaps, aware of this matter and might even have wondered why we chose to take no action previously. Others new to this court may be less informed. Indeed, we ourself learned many of the details much later." As he spoke, Rico – was it Rico, or King Rupert about to exact judgment? That royal "we" was more unnerving than ever before. Rico's eyes swept the assembled court, making eye contact with everyone except Joseph. His hand still rested heavily on Joseph's shoulder.
Just let him take it out on me, Joseph prayed fervently. Don't let anything happen to Clarisse.
"Recent events make it clear that we should, indeed, have taken action long ago." He looked sad, unaccountably sad.
Damn, damn, damn, damn . . . Who could have told? How could he know? Damn, damn, damn, damn . . .
"And so, tonight, we will rectify this long-standing error." He looked again at Joseph, once again with that curiously blank expression on his face. "I'll have to ask you kneel, Joe," he whispered regretfully.
I'm dead. I'm dead, dead, dead, dead, dead . . .
As Joseph knelt before his king, his gaze flicked to Clarisse. He could not call out to her, but he drank in every inch of her, savoring the sight and smell of her as he slowly submitted himself to her husband's judgment.
As Rico reached for the large sword leaning against the throne, Joseph's panic reached his eyes. A small, slightly mad voice hidden deep inside urged him to throw himself at Rico's feet, wailing, Sire, I swear, I never touched her!
Using two hands, Rico raised the mighty weapon, now purely ceremonial but well maintained to a razor sharp edge. The sword rested against the side of Joseph's neck and Rico braced himself, setting his feet apart. A somewhat louder, though seriously deranged voice capered through Joseph's mind goading him to snatch the flimsy saber Philippe wore belted at his side and challenge Rico, She loves me, you fool! Not you! She never has! She's mine, I tell you! Mine!
Savagely squelching both voices, Joseph clenched his sweating palms against his pant legs and lowered his head, knowing full well he deserved whatever Rico was about to throw at him. He could just see the hem of Clarisse's gown off to his left. I love you. He hoped desperately that she might somehow hear his unspoken cry. I'm sorry, he thought as he stared fixedly at Rico's shoes.
"Joseph Del Lago, by the authority vested in us by God and the people of Genovia," Rico's voice rang out almost cheerfully and Joseph sickened, "We bestow upon you the rank of Le Chevalier de l'Ordre de la Poire, with all the rights and responsibilities therein contained."
Joseph's head sagged, relieved to still be connected to the rest of him, not yet registering the impact of Rico's words. As Rico touched first his left shoulder, then his right with the massive sword, Joseph looked up in wonder. Rico seemed to have swelled to titanic proportions; he was Arthur, Charlemagne, and El Cid all rolled into one. And he was smiling.
"Though your long history of friendship and service to King and Country makes it evident you understand and embody the duties of your Knighthood, it is our solemn duty to remind you."
Joseph's eyes widened with still greater panic as the King's 'judgment' finally became clear. It was a boyhood dream come true, to be certain – it was every boy's boyhood dream. But he did not deserve it. Not now, not when he deceived his King and his friend with every waking thought.
"A knight must respect all those who are weak or defenseless, whether because of age, infirmity, poverty, or vow, and be steadfast in defending them." Rico handed the sword off to someone – was it Pierre? – and placed one hand on each of Joseph's shoulders. Okay, maybe this won't be so bad . . .
"A knight must love his Kingdom and fulfill most faithfully his duties to his King." Duties I can handle . . .
"His word must be dependable beyond doubt or question." And here's where it gets sticky. Do you doubt my word, Rico? You should . . .
"He must never flee from the face of his foes." And when the foe is your best friend, your King? Or if the foe is myself?
"He must be generous to all." Believe me, I'd like to be more than generous to one in particular, but that's the one thing I don't dare . . .
"And, always and everywhere, he must be the champion of the right and the good." If only you knew how thick you're laying on the guilt, my friend. I'd have rather been beheaded . . .
"Arise, Sir Joseph," Rico commanded, "and take your place in this company." Sliding his hands down to Joseph's elbows, Rico helped him to stand. As he rose, his right knee buckled slightly; he stumbled almost unnoticeably and quickly recovered. "You okay?" Rico murmured.
"I'm in shock," Joseph whispered hoarsely, grateful he could speak at all. "I had no idea."
They stood quietly together at the throne, allowing the surprised buzz from the crowd to run its course. Joseph especially noted the startled yet calculating look on Viscount Mabrey's face, standing next in line.
"I, uh," Joseph coughed, "I still owe you an Oath," he reminded Rico.
"Indeed you do." Rico chuckled. "On your knees again then, Sir Joseph." He bowed with a flourish.
"You can call me Joe," he said, cocking his head to the side and forcing a smile as he again knelt at Rico's feet. Holding out his hands together, Rico clasped them within his own.
"Before God and this company," Joseph began the familiar litany, "I will to Philippe Arthur Rupert Navarre Renaldi be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, preserve and defend him, protect and guard his interests, according to the laws of God and Genovia. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on the condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it, and that he will perform everything as it was in our agreement when I submitted myself to him and chose his will."
As he spoke, all the moisture from his mouth migrated to his palms. He could only hope that with all the hands Rico had held this night, he wouldn't notice. Rico was giving his acceptance of Joseph's Oath, but he was oblivious to it. Suddenly, the Oath wasn't fun anymore. It was deadly serious, and he was knowingly prostituting his own honor with every word. Of course, he certainly did 'love all which he loves,' though in quite a different manner than the Oath implied. But would Rico be pleased at the words Joseph and Clarisse had exchanged in New York? Certainly not.
He shifted to make his way away from the throne for the ceremony to continue, but Rico held him, a hand on Joseph's arm.
"I still need you, Joe," he said earnestly. "Keep that wanderlust in check, okay? Don't abandon me again."
Where before Rico had swelled to mammoth proportions in Joseph's eyes, now he seemed to shrivel, and he was once again a thirteen year old boy, lost in a strange and dangerous part of town. Joseph's gaze flared over Clarisse, and she met it with an almost imperceptible, resigned shrug. He glanced briefly at the giant crest behind the throne, and rested finally on his King.
"I could never leave you, Your Majesty," he said, knowing he spoke to both of them.