The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  “Your family is quite wealthy. Metals, I believe.”

  “My friends in America have always called me the ‘Tin Prince’.”

  Raymond laughed. “It sounds like a character from Oz. You have traveled a great deal, then?”

  “My share, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

  “I… it’s only that I have never left Bulvania. I have never had the chance, really. My life has been confined to the monastery until—” He made a sweeping gesture, indicating that palace and the kingship. “Of course, even if I had not entered St. Dymphna’s, I would never have gotten to see the world. My family were peasants.” He paused, then added almost wistfully, “I wish I had had the opportunity to see the world. Places change people.”

  Logan wondered what it was about him that needed changing, other than the obvious. “Surely now that you’re king… ”

  “Yes, Alex says he can arrange a royal tour of the continent for me. I don’t know, though. I think it may be too late for me.”

  “You’re in your early twenties, your majesty. Surely that isn’t too—”

  “Raymond. Please call me that.”

  “Raymond.” Logan smiled again, this time a bit more broadly. “Who ever thought I’d be on a first name basis with a king?”

  Raymond put his hand on top of Logan’s again briefly, then pulled away. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Sorry. What on earth for?”

  “I’m afraid I have never had the chance to develop proper social skills. In the monastery I had one special friend, Brother Primrose. He knew me, understood me. He died a year ago. Getting a doctor up to that mountaintop was always a— I never interacted much with the others, except Abbot Beech. I always felt like they—like they didn’t really understand me. I suppose that’s why I agreed to come here. That and a sense of duty, I suppose, or patriotism or whatever you want to call it. We were always taught that one should be willing to sacrifice his life for his country. ‘For the greater glory of Bulvania,’ and all that.”

  Logan looked around, amused. “Sacrifice one’s life? Are there assassins lurking behind tapestries, or what?”

  “Don’t laugh. Seventeen of Bulvania’s kings have been assassinated. The first Raymond died at the hands of his lover, Hugo Defilippo. Some royal guardsmen were involved in the plot. A king, I’m learning quickly, can never quite trust anyone. As you know, there are even questions about my predecessor’s death. I have enemies already, and I haven’t even done anything.”

  “Your people briefed you about my family. Surely they can they find the assassins.”

  Three servants came, cleared the table and served the next course. It was filet mignon wrapped in bacon and stuffed with herbs. Raymond poked at it, apparently lost in thought. “Alex and his men are good, among the best in Europe. But they’re human; they can only do so much.”

  “Alex?”

  “The Royal Guards have always functioned as a kind of secret service. They do intelligence. They compiled a dossier on your family as soon as Washington notified us who the ambassador would be. I know all about you. I’ve even seen your photographs from your exhibition.”

  “I suddenly feel as if I’ve taken all my clothes off.”

  Raymond laughed. “Just photographs, not x-rays.” He paused. “The other monks, well, they never really understood Primrose and me. I think that you might.”

  “This is delicious.” Logan tucked in. “But surely those kind of ‘special friendships’ aren’t unknown in monasteries.”

  “We were close. We were also the abbey’s scientists. We spent more time with our instruments than our prayer books. I don’t imagine the others ever quite trusted us.”

  “That’s too bad. In a closed community… ”

  “That’s the other big reason I left, really. I wanted to see the world. Engage with it.”

  “The world might disappoint you. It does most people.”

  It was time for dessert. The same trio of servants brought chocolate ice cream and cookies. Just as Raymond was about to dig in, another servant came in. This one was younger than the others, and to appearances he was quite shaken. He bowed to Raymond, glanced at Logan, then whispered something in the king’s ear. Raymond’s demeanor changed at once. He had been enjoying himself, enjoying Logan’s company; now he turned quite somber. “I see,” he said softly. “Thank you. I’ll get the arrangements moving at once.”

  The young man bowed again. “Thank you, your majesty.” With that he turned and left quickly.

  “Is something wrong, Raymond?”

  “Yes.” The word was almost a whisper. “Yes. Very much so.”

  Logan waited for him to go on.

  And after a long pause, he did. “Grand Duke Rupert is dead.”

  “Oh.” Never having known the man, not quite certain the nature of his friendship with Raymond, Logan wasn’t at all sure what to say. “Oh, I’m sorry. I know that you and he… ”

  “So it appears that the first official act of my reign will be a state funeral.” He pushed his plate aside. “You must excuse me, please, Logan. I have to go and see to the arrangements.”

  “But—but aren’t there traditions, protocols?”

  “Not in this case, I’m afraid. Rupert was, how do you say, the black sheep. He loved men. Openly. The church will oppose any arrangements I make for his burial. So will the Privy Council, I imagine. They were furious when my predecessor brought him back from exile. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  Logan got to his feet. “Easily. Until recently the same thing happened in America. Sons who might, er, embarrass their wealthy families were sent off with trust funds and kept quietly out of the way.”

  Astonishment showed in the king’s face. “In America?!”

  “It still happens. All the time. Not as frequently as before, but—I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Raymond.”

  “Thank you. I apologize for cutting our evening short. I have to go and find Alex. He’ll know how to handle this.”

  “Good night, then. Thank you for the dinner.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Raymond stared at him for a long moment without saying anything. Then, impulsively, he threw his arms around Logan and hugged him tightly. And kissed him on the cheek.

  Logan was careful not to respond. He had taken a kind of liking to the young king. But the man’s appearance was such a turn-off. And that nerdy personality… ! He said a quick goodnight and left.

  Chapter Twenty

  Duke Rupert’s funeral was held three days later. Raymond issued a proclamation declaring it an official day of mourning in Bulvania. Banks, businesses and schools were closed; flags flew at half-staff. Despite the disruption of life and usual, the people went about their business as close to normally as they could. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, about the duke’s death, but they had never really known him. He had lived most of his life in exile, after all, and since returning home he had lived a life confined to his tower. People acknowledged the loss of a member of the royal family, but only in a detached, formal way.

  Raymond also proclaimed that all the country’s leaders—the Privy Council, important businessmen, clergy and so on—were to attend the funeral. Despite the royal decree, Archbishop Defilippo announced that his faith prevented him from attending the funeral of a “sodomite,” and he ordered that none of his clergy attend either, much less officiate at the services. Tradition decreed that Bulvanian royalty be buried in the cathedral’s crypt, but Defilippo denied that, too. Arrangements were made for the funeral to take place in the city’s largest public cemetery. Raymond, confirming his reputation as “the priest king,” officiated personally.

  Protocol demanded that representatives of other nations attend the burial of a royal. So P.T., Logan and the rest got back into their formal attire and went. All the other ambassadors were there with their people. Despite Bulvanian indifference and the hostility of the church, the funeral blossomed into quite an event.

  It was raining that
morning. P.T., inevitably, grumped. “Why couldn’t he have died during a drought?”

  Defilippo refused to let his cathedral be opened for the funeral service, so the rites were held in an older, smaller church. It was packed to the rafters with dignitaries, members of the government and some elderly Bulvanians (the few of them who were old enough to actually remember the duke). Raymond, in is monk’s robes, led the prayers and ceremonies.

  Then there was a formal funeral cortege to the burial ground. All the most important officials rode in open carriages, as was traditional. Carriages were crowded not only with officials but with servants holding umbrellas over them. The whole thing could easily have turned into a farce, but happily there were no awkward incidents.

  Alex’s royal guardsmen were everywhere, overseeing all the happenings and making sure there were no untoward moments. They were of course in their dress uniforms; Logan was beginning to think they wore them all the time, at the drop of a hat, and that their reluctance to pose for him in them was more a matter of coyness than of tradition. Alex himself, as was usual, rarely left the king’s side. It was clear that he had become Raymond’s right-hand man.

  When the funeral party reached the cemetery there was a fortunate break in the rain. Raymond’s robes were already soaked despite the guardsman hold an umbrella over him. The umbrella was blazoned with the royal crest of Bulvania. Marge whispered to Logan, “Maybe the gods got a look at the royal insignia and were intimidated into turning the rain off.” Constantine shushed her.

  Raymond took his place at the graveside, flanked by Alex and Evgeny. Queen Theodora, Count Schlutow and their party formed a group a few feet away from them. Raymond stood at the head of the grave, prayer book in hand. Six guardsmen, acting as pallbearers, placed the coffin carefully so that it could be lowered into its grave.

  Alex scanned the crowd. When his eyes fell on Logan, he immediately waved, signaling him to come and stand at the king’s side.

  Logan’s heart sank. Raymond was clearly fixated on him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He decided to play dumb. He pointed a finger at himself and mouthed the word, “Me?”

  Alex nodded. Beside him, Raymond realized what was happening, spotted Logan and broke into a huge smile. Alex gestured again that Logan should join them.

  Constantine nudged Logan in the ribs and whispered, “The king wants you.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want him.”

  “Be human, Logan. The poor man is in mourning.”

  “Then why is he grinning like a fool?”

  The rain started again, a heavy downpour. P.T. grumbled, “For God’s sake go and stand beside him or we’ll never get out of here.”

  Marge was enjoying Logan’s obvious discomfort. “Go over and give him a hug.”

  “Shut up.”

  Alex waved to him again, emphatically. The whole business was beginning to attract notice from the rest of the crowd. Realizing there was no way around it, Logan went and stood by the king. Raymond glanced at him fleetingly, then focused his attention back on the grave. But he inched toward Logan and pressed against him. The rain stopped again. P.T. wished it would make up its mind.

  It was too public, too embarrassing. In an urgent tone Logan whispered, “Your majesty, you’re getting me all wet.”

  “Sorry.” Raymond blushed and stepped away.

  Finally, the funeral rites proceeded. Raymond read from his prayer book, intoning the solemn words that had been spoken at gravesites for centuries. Logan felt terribly self-conscious and wished it would end.

  Then he noticed the queen. As she had on coronation day, she was watching him quite fixedly. Good God, he told himself, another one. I have got to get out of this godawful country.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  That night there was a huge wake at the palace, hosted not by Raymond, who was deep in mourning at the loss of his friend, but by the royal guards. It was open to everyone. Nobles and dignitaries rubbed elbows with bootblacks and weavers. The American legation made an appearance, as both tradition and protocol required. A small orchestra played, and there was dancing. In a corner of the ballroom actors performed skits. In another corner a magician pulled birds out of his sleeve. Marge and Logan got themselves cups of punch and stood off to one side, watching the people and the festivities.

  Marge sipped her punch. “Everything but dancing girls.”

  “The royal guards are hosting this.” Logan pointed at two particularly graceless dancers. “Most of them wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a dancing girl.”

  “Logan, they can’t all be gay.”

  “Probably not. Let’s just say they’re all broad-minded.” He scanned the crowd. “Constantine seems to be enjoying himself.” The charge d’affaires was talking with a well-dressed young man.

  “You guys never rest, like rust.”

  “Stop frowning, Sappho. At least there are no predatory kings or queens here.”

  “Queens?”

  “I mean the genuine kind. Her majesty keeps giving me the eye, in a way that’s hard to mistake.”

  “Isn’t she in mourning? It’s only a couple of months since her husband—”

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Marge.” Peter had caught his eye and was gesturing that he should sneak off with some of the guards for a ‘private party.’ Logan didn’t have to be asked twice. And so he honored the passing of Duke Rupert with multiple orgasms with multiple men, all of them young, fit and gorgeous.

  * * *

  The next morning Constantine was late getting to his office. “Too much punch,” he moaned to Marge

  She shook her head sadly. “The things we do for America. It’s a good thing you got here. I was just about to send someone up to your room to get you.”

  “Why? Am I needed for something?”

  She resisted the temptation to wisecrack. “There’s a messenger here from Count Schlutow.”

  Constantine woke up; in a flash he was bright and alert. “Send him in.”

  The messenger was a young man in livery. He handed Constantine an envelope. “I was supposed to give this to Mr. Logan Bockwein personally. But I guess this will be all right.”

  Constantine opened the envelope. Inside was a formal engraved invitation to lunch at the count’s residence, addressed to Logan. “Surely there must be some mistake. The ambassador is Mr. P.T. Bockwein. Logan is his son.”

  “The count was quite explicit, sir.”

  “I see. I will give this to Mr. Logan Bockwein at once.” He had no idea what to make of the situation.

  Logan was still in bed, even more wiped out than Constantine, thanks to three particularly athletic guardsmen. Constantine had to knock at his door repeatedly before he got any response. Finally, Logan opened the door. He was undressed and had wrapped a sheet around himself. He yawned. “What do you want?”

  “You’ve been invited to the palace.”

  Another yawn. “Not the damn king again…”

  “To the Schlutow Palace.”

  “The—? There has to be some mistake. They want dad, not me.”

  The door swung open a bit. Constantine saw that there was a young man in the bed, naked and still asleep. One of the guardsmen? “That’s what I thought, too, Logan. But the messenger was insistent that the invitation is for you.” He held it out.

  Logan looked at it but didn’t take it. “Look, I’m not awake yet. I’ll deal with this after I’ve had a chance to shower and get dressed.”

  “Of course. He looks pretty hot.”

  Logan closed the door in his face.

  * * *

  At noon, right on the dot, a carriage celled for Logan at the embassy. As he climbed in, he grumbled, “Doesn’t anyone in this country own a car? Is this the 20 first century, or what?”

  The footman who held the door for him didn’t respond. The carriage set off, and, in a few minutes, they were at the dock. Logan transferred to a small boat that took him out to Schlutow Island and the count’s palace. A butler saw Lo
gan in and led him to the dining room. The walls were mirrored, making the room seem enormous. Crystal chandeliers blazed. Artworks hung on the walls. It was, in short, a typical room in a typical Bulvanian palace.

  A long table ran the length of the room. At one end of it a man was seated. Logan put on his best diplomatic smile and crossed to him. It wasn’t the count. It took Logan a moment to recognize him: Archbishop Defilippo. He wasn’t in his clerical robes but in a black suit with a diplomatic-style sash cross his chest. But what on earth was he doing there at all?

  The butler gestured Logan to the chair opposite Defilippo. They said hello to each other and made small talk for a moment, the weather, the previous day’s funeral and wake… As he was settling in at the table, a door opened and Count Schlutow entered. There was another round of good-day-how-are-yous, and the count took his seat at the head of the table. Servants came and served aperitifs. Schlutow said to the bishop, “She’ll be down any moment.”

  She? Logan had a sinking feeling he knew who “she” had to be.

  As if on cue the door opened again. “She” stood there, framed by the wide doorway, as if she was waiting for a fanfare or a royal escort or something. The butler announced, “Her majesty, Queen Theodora.” And she swept grandly into the room and took her place at the table, opposite the count. The men all got to their feet, then sat again once she had taken her place.

  “Mr. Bockwein, I believe you know her majesty.” The count was all smiles.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her, no.” He nodded to the queen. “Your majesty. You are even more beautiful close-up.” This was going to be an ordeal. He wasn’t sure he could keep playing this diplomatic game for very long; he’d have given anything to have Constantine there with him or, better yet, not to be there at all.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bockwein.” She accepted the compliment, in stride, as if it were her due, and was all noble graciousness. Logan couldn’t help wondering if the count had been screwing her all night. “And I must say you live up to your reputation as the handsomest young man in the diplomatic corps.”