Unaware of what was happening until it was too late, in an instant fear interjected itself into his pleasure like a starving animal released from its cage, growing in leaps and bounds. It was a train coming at him at full speed, colliding with its destination, followed by an explosion.
Alejandro crashed into a pain he had never wanted to know again.
He leaned against the pillar, bracing himself so no one would see his distress. The crown prince of Spain rarely shared his true feelings and certainly not his pain.
In the far reaches of his memory, he recalled only one other time when he had exploded from the inside out.
He not only recalled it; the terrible truth was he began to relive it.
Alejandro longed to escape the opera box, to remove himself from the music, but he couldn't leave without causing notice.
He had never been the same since that unholy day. Like the man who loses his legs in war, his identity forever entwined with the worst experience of his life.
I lost everything I held dear in a moment in time. In that instant, he transferred his identity, his love, his loyalty—to Spain.
Spain was not the instigator of the abuse but Her survival required it. From that instant forward, in the debilitating realization of abandonment, the crown prince bonded irrevocably with España. She who had taken everything from him was his love, his life, his soul.
And his Captor.
Alejandro’s eyes fixated on the soprano and she on him.
He was reliving the transferal of his allegiance to Spain.
The prince had been conditioned all his life for that moment, taught that his life was not his own, that he must sacrifice it for his country.
Alejandro closed his eyes and tried to forget. Instead, the memories came flooding in…
3
In Vain One Calls
“In vain one calls
Nothing will work,
Neither threats nor pleading”
—CARMEN by Georges Bizet
Palacio Real, 1884
It is happening all over again. Only this time I am being destroyed with a depraved recklessness: re-living my entire life in seconds. The first time I was forever altered: shattered and re-created.
In this instance I might be obliterated.
“But I don't wish to be king! I want to stay here with you and Mummy!” the eight-year old prince exclaimed in astonished dismay. His eyes filled with tears as he struggled violently to hold them back.
“Have I not told you that a Bonifácio never cries before the eyes of others?” Don Bartolomé de Bonifácio XII, king of Spain, demanded. “Do not disgrace me with your tears, Alejandro.”
“What have I done, Poppy? Please don't send me away.” Alejandro stared at his beloved Poppy in disbelief and horror as a debilitating grief invaded his heart so quickly he found it difficult to breathe.
His father was in ceremonial dress, an awe-inspiring sight in a dark blue naval officer's uniform. Displayed on the King's chest were his medals. Around his neck was a most magnificent jewel, the Sovereignty of the Order of the Golden Fleece.
Alejandro stood before the King, now seated before him on a gold and red velvet throne. The boy could almost see his reflection in his father's boots shined to perfection, only inches from his face.
“You will go where I tell you to go, Alejandro,” commanded King Don Bartolomé.
A picture of fangs and claws flashed before Alejandro’s face as the memory of facing a bear in the woods invaded his mind.
The child was confused. His teeth began to chatter and his hands to shake. He didn't know why but he was suddenly freezing. He was ashamed of his fear and didn't want his father to see it, so he clenched his teeth.
No! No! I must think of something that will keep me with my family. Images and memories whirled around his head as the room began to spin.
Alejandro’s earliest recollections were of his father telling him he was not only the hope for his family but the hope for his country. An expectation which might have crushed other children he carried with pride.
As long as he could remember the child was told he would be educated in the palace until military school at age sixteen. It was safer for him in the palace, and his parents wanted him near them.
Suddenly they did not.
“But why, Poppy? What have I done?” Desperately the boy sought to discover his fault. “I have completed all my studies, haven't I? I go to mass twice daily and say all my prayers before and after each meal. And I speak to everyone just as you taught me.”
Hadn't he stood for hours in those boring ceremonies, wanting nothing more than to sit down? Hadn't he gone hungry while he smiled and stood in line? Hadn't he spoken politely to the endless visitors who came to the palace?
Every minute of his day was demanding. He was never alone. He had his own physician, Master of the Hunt, Gentlemen of the Chambers, and Head of the Horse.
And I loved every moment of it. Through any test of will or extraordinary standard to be met Alejandro had nonetheless always belonged to this family. He had a place, and it was with the royal family de Bonifácio.
Until now.
The two gold lions at the end of the king and queen's thrones, statues which had heretofore made Prince Alejandro’s heart swell with pride, suddenly seemed to be growling at him.
Quickly he glanced about the royal throne room of the Palacio Real to prove to himself it was as it has always been: his home.
“Home,” he whispered, thinking out loud.
“You have not been given permission to speak,” King Don Bartolomé boomed. “I will tell you now about your new school and what I expect from you. And you will listen.”
The crown prince felt himself going numb—like that time he had broken his leg. He stared at his father, watching the king’s mouth move, but he heard nothing. None of it was real.
But I know it is real. He must learn what he had done wrong; he must convince his poppy to let him stay.
The idea of leaving his family was so terrifying he wanted to explode. I will explode, he was sure.
Desperately the child tried to understand. Alejandro loved music, especially piano and choir, but he wasn't a very good musician or singer. Maybe that was why.
He shook his head. No, Poppy had always stressed languages and military tactics. And mathematics.
“Poppy, is it because of geometry?” The blood drained from Alejandro’s face as the realization hit him. He tugged on his father's velvet sleeve, the gold cord catching on his fingernails. “I promise I will improve. And, Poppy,” he added desperately, “haven't I done exceptional in Italian, fencing, and geography? You said I did.”
“Do not…” King Don Bartolomé frowned severely, his long moustache curling up in opposition to his frown. “…ever tell me what I have said or not said.”
“Poppy, just tell me,” Alejandro begged, his voice shaking, “Is it because of the triangles?” Slowly he released the king's sleeve, his eyes glued to his father's face.
King Don Bartolomé stared unrelentingly. “You shall have an excellent mathematics teacher at El Anselmo, Alejandro.”
Alejandro's hand shook violently in mid-air. He must not have worked hard enough, and now he would be cast out from his family because of his laziness.
“But no,” King Don Bartolomé added. “It has nothing to do with a specific subject. It has to do with the fact that you shall do as I tell you.”
Alejandro studied his father's face as he released his breath. Poppy never lied to him. It wasn't geometry.
But it is because he was not good enough in some way. Why else would Poppy send him away? It would have to be something terrible to do that.
I could never send any of my family away, I love them too much. The thought was heart-wrenching. Poppy could not feel the same way about me, or he wouldn’t be able to.
“But, Poppy,” Alejandro murmured, tears forming in his eyes against his will, “What did I do? Why don't you love me anymore?”
“Do not speak such nonsense, Alejandro. This is your duty. Love is immaterial.” King Don Bartolomé glared disapprovingly at his son, waving his hand as if dismissing him with the motion.
What does he mean? Love is imm…imma…what? But Alejandro knew: he took the meaning clearly from the king's tone. The heat rose in the child’s cheeks as he strove to contain his tears.
“Poppy, won't you miss me?” he barely choked on the words, afraid to hear the answer. If his poppy's heart was breaking like his was, he wouldn't be able to send him away. And why was Mummy silent? She must have stopped loving him too.
Alejandro watched his poppy's face anxiously. The expression the young prince saw there gripped him with pain.
As the royal bearing conveyed that Alejandro's question did not warrant an answer, in an instant the child knew the excruciating pain of rejection in equal measure to the love he felt for his family.
After a long pause King Don Bartolomé deigned to reply. “It is not for me to decide what I want or don't want,” he retorted, his eyes steely and determined. “Nor for you. Alejandro, you are the crown prince, you were born to serve your country, and you have no say in the matter. You will fulfill your destiny and be the king you were born to be.”
“I will be king if you wish it, Poppy.” Reluctantly he presented his best offering with every ounce of strength left to him. Barely able to speak the words which tasted like putrid vinegar on his lips, he added, “But why can't I go to school here and live with you and Mummy? You always said …”
“I will be the judge of what is best.”
As Alejandro looked up, King Don Bartolomé's large stature towering over him, the boy had never been so aware of his father's height.
Under King Don Bartolomé's harsh and unrelenting demeanor, Alejandro's hands shook as he realized the unthinkable was happening and there was nothing he could do to stop it. With no warning and for no reason his power was now gone.
And far worse, he was no longer loved.
He suddenly felt dizzy and started to sway. He bit his lip hard in order to maintain his balance. He wanted to cry out from the pain.
But he must…he must impress his father.
Maybe then I can live with my mummy and poppy.
* * *
King Don Bartolomé studied his son. Alejandro was large for his age, with dark brown hair, large chocolate brown eyes, long eyelashes which were too feminine, a perpetual half-grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. His son had a mischievous disposition, as any young man adored from birth and born to advantage would have.
Any young man born a king.
He and the Queen had spoiled their first child in all the wrong ways.
That will end as of this moment.
Fortunately, Alejandro was uncommonly driven. He had an enormous amount of energy for anything which pleased him, and it pleased him to do anything which was set before him. The prince would exert himself to excel at every task.
King Don Bartolomé reflected with satisfaction on the brilliance of his plan. Alejandro will prove a useful tool.
It was true there was no reason his son could not be schooled at the palace, in terms of his education. But there were other, more significant factors to consider.
The sons of favored societal leaders would be schooled with the prince. Naturally they couldn't be brought to the palace. The association with the monarchy and the impression of elitism would be too pronounced.
No, the prince would move among the people and be one of them: he had to be taken from the palace. He would then proceed to military school at the appropriate time. He would be the people's prince, the people's choice, and the monarchy would be saved.
King Don Bartolomé was well aware he was the ruler of a once great imperialist country which had claimed fully one-third of the globe. It was now the year 1884 and sixty percent of Spaniards were illiterate, the country was poor, and Spain was behind other European countries in industrial advances. Poverty had inspired much unrest in Spain; the country was torn between parties of the far left and the far right. There was no middle road in Spain; Spaniards were too passionate a people to adopt a neutral position.
True to his heritage, the king embraced a path. The monarchy was threatened, and King Don Bartolomé de Bonifácio knew his greatest tool was the crown prince: everyone was enamored of the heir to the throne. He would use the prince to court desirable factions, playing one side against the other.
The king stroked his moustache. Possibly a false threat to the crown prince's life…whatever it took to keep the Spanish people behind the monarchy.
“Alejandro, you listen to me. We have been given a great trust. I will not bear the humiliation of having my name go down in history as the ruler who lost the throne. If you let that happen, you will prove to me you are not worthy of the Bonifácio name. Do you understand me, Alejandro?”
“Yes, Poppy.” Alejandro nodded, his words barely audible.
“Remember, above all, the monarchy must be preserved.” King Don Bartolomé observed his son, swaying and turning red. He frowned. The boy must perform his role. Everything depended on this.
He placed his face close to his son’s. “The Bonifácio family is the monarchy. If the monarchy dies, your family dies. If you do not do as I say, Alejandro, you will have destroyed us all.”
A tear escaped from the boy's eye which infuriated the king. “Do not cry before me.”
Alejandro made no sound, but he nodded. As the king of Spain observed the flash of determination which crossed his son's face, his pulse slowed down a bit.
As he prepared to send his precious child away to school he felt hope rather than regret. The thought of not being on the throne terrified Don Bartolomé.
I am supposed to rule. Anything else was unfathomable.
The king studied his oldest son, never considering what his child might need. Don Bartolomé shook his head.
He might rule, but his son would serve.
4
My life is Music
My Life is Music
which I spin
Into star shadow
Dreams and laughter
Büyük Saray, Constantinople, 1895
“I wish to hear her sing,” the Sultan of Constantinople commanded in a tone of voice which indicated it was not a request.
“Grand Seignior, a thousand pardons.” Captain Lord Ravensdale’s words were respectful but his expression remained stony. “It is not appropriate in our culture for the daughter of an earl to sing in public. And my daughter has not yet even seen her thirteenth birthday. A public display such as you suggest would be disgraceful.”
En route to his newly assigned position as British Ambassador to France, Valerius Huntington, the fifth earl of Ravendale and his family were directed to visit the Büyük Saray, the palace of the Sultan of Constantinople, also called “The Great Palace” and “The Sacred Palace”. The Grand Seignior was the keeper of great power, a fact which did not appear to be lost on the monarch sitting on the throne.
“Do you suppose I would behave inappropriately to your daughter even if she were not a mere child? The Sultan's eyebrows raised ominously, his determination unabated. “Do you think me a heathen, Captain?” he asked, his fury clearly mounting.
Well, there is the little matter of your nickname—the Red Assassin—I believe you are affectionately called?
Slowly Abdul Hamid II lowered himself back onto the golden throne, chartreuse and gold velvet robes flowing about him to reveal a bare, muscular chest. His dark eyes shone fiercely beneath a lilac silk turban, and his black beard accentuated chiseled features.
Then there is the inescapable existence of the Seraglio—the nefarious pleasure dome—
and your harem contained therein.
Last but not least there are the eunuchs, whose ranks I do not wish to join.
Sorely do not wish to join.
“This has nothing to do with your great country, Grand Seignior, nor your illustrious
reign, and everything to do with my family and my duty as a parent. Lady Nicolette is my daughter; she is not along for the purpose of entertaining our hosts, however revered. Just as you do not present your wives for our entertainment, nor do I present my family for yours. Surely you must understand this.”
The harem is for the Sultan's eyes only.
“I merely wish to hear your charming daughter sing. Does she not sing for your fine English lords?” Abdul Hamid II asked, undeterred, as he stroked his bearded chin.
Val swallowed hard. It appeared the Red Sultan wished to ascertain if he was being slighted, that is to say, if better treatment was afforded to much lower-ranking Britons than to the Grand Seignior. This could be interpreted to indicate a racial prejudice against the Arabic leader of Constantinople. Or it could mean the man before him had a vast ego and believed no one should be treated better than himself.
There were a number of ways to interpret this scenario, all of which were unfavorable to Captain Lord Ravensdale and his family.
Why did I accept this position? I knew I would confront megalomaniacs. It is to be expected when dealing with dictators, despots, and leaders of state.
Val did not answer, maintaining a steady gaze. This he knew how to do, having commanded soldiers into battle. The former Captain of the 7th Dragoon Guards, the Princess Royals, made his displeasure evident, as if the question did not deserve an answer. It was a fact that when two people of vastly opposing viewpoints collided, resolving the issue with logic was rarely an option.
The sultan made no effort to conceal his displeasure either, but, in the end, was more strategist than tyrant. “Is it that Lady Nicolette sings for gentlemen but not for barbarians? I have heard that English ladies sing in their parlors to dinner guests. I merely wish to respect your customs.”
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren Page 3
