King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  Our kindest regards…

  I’m humbled. I don’t even know what to say. I hand the letter to Norah for her reaction.

  She reads it silently, with a smile slowly creeping over her lovely face. “Owen, this is wonderful,” she says. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” I reply. “We’re just starting.”

  “You’ve listened to them. You’ve engaged. You’ve heard them and you’re putting things together to act in their interests,” Norah says. “You’re going to be a great king, and they know it.”

  As it turns out, the Worker’s Organizing Committee didn’t just send that letter to me—they also took out full page ads in Anglesey’s two leading newspapers, posted it online, and put up posters on every street corner all over the country.

  It’s probably the biggest compliment I could ever be paid. With any luck, it will have the effect of bringing the nobles who oppose the constitution and all the newly proposed legislation to heel. Representative democracy, livable wages, and fair taxation are coming to Anglesey, whether the rich old blowhards in the House of Lords like it or not. We’re going to accomplish it without a revolution, or even a single street protest. That may be a first in world history.

  The royal procession from the palace to the cathedral is an ancient tradition. It’s done on foot, with the entire royal family marched down the middle of Cymrea’s streets through a huge crowd of Anglesey’s citizenry gathered behind police-guarded barricades to see the spectacle. Five hundred years ago, the procession was conducted this way to force the new king to come face to face with his people, and to feel his vulnerability against their numbers. It still has that effect today.

  There’s a sea of humanity surrounding us as we walk the half-mile in the glum, gray chill of early November to the place where I will finally be crowned king of Anglesey.

  Norah holds tightly onto my arm. We’re both dressed for the event, me in my Navy Dress Blue uniform, and Norah in a conservative suit and faux fur coat, tailored to make her as comfortable as possible despite being heavily laden with twins.

  The people call our names, waving and smiling. They throw flowers and take photos as we pass by. Lloyd and my mother wave back, but I’m required by custom to remain impassive. That’s fine, because I’m much more concerned with keeping Norah upright than I am about waving at people.

  By the time we reach the cathedral, ascending the steps to go inside, Norah’s almost done for. “I have to sit,” she says as we pass through the giant, thousand-year-old oak doors.

  This procession is choreographed so tightly that if we stop, it throws the whole clockwork out of sync.

  “I’ll take care of her, sir,” Duncan says, stepping up.

  “Go,” Norah says, taking Duncan’s arm. “Go on!”

  With my mother and Lloyd behind me, I march slowly forward into the nave of the cathedral, my cadence dictated by the rhythm of a single drummer keeping a slow, steady beat on his instrument ahead of me. He’s the only person permitted to march ahead of the king. He represents the people marching before their monarch, leading and defending, but always in the lead.

  The cathedral is packed. Every titled noble and all their families are here. Every church official, from bishops to choirboys. Every government minister is present along with all their families, our entire diplomatic corps, foreign dignitaries invited by the palace, celebrities, and other special guests. There are thousands crowded into this giant church, and there are billions more watching live on televisions worldwide as well as streaming on the internet.

  It’s overwhelming. I’ve never felt so many eyes on me.

  Reaching the raised dais near the chancel, the drummer steps to the right while the archbishop, resplendent in satin and gold threads, his head covered with a fantastically decorated mitre, steps up from the left.

  I move forward, arms at my side, until the archbishop and I are face to face.

  Everyone in the cathedral falls silent. The only sound to be heard is the flutter of pigeons in the stone eaves, hundreds of feet above our heads. I’ve never felt so small, or so scrutinized. My hands tremble. My mouth has gone dry.

  “Sir,” he calls loudly, his voice echoing against the vaulted heights of this space. “Is Your Majesty prepared to take the oath?”

  I take a deep breath, hoping my voice projects rather than cracking like a frightened child’s. “I am prepared,” I declare.

  “Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of the Kingdom of Anglesey, and of your possessions and the other territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs?” he asks.

  “I solemnly promise to do so,” I respond.

  “Will you, to your power, cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?”

  “I will.”

  The archbishop gazes sternly into my eyes. He knows the next promise I’m bound by law to make is the most difficult one put to me, and the most controversial in the face of the reforms I’m proposing.

  He raises his voice, lifting his chin high so all can hear. “And will you, to the utmost of your power, maintain and defend the rights of the aristocracy and their heirs, to their titles and their lands? Will you maintain and preserve inviolably the peaceful settlement of the nobility without challenge, preserving unto them their rightful place as your counsellors and liege lords of this kingdom, protecting all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?”

  “All this I promise to do,” I say, equaling the archbishop’s volume.

  The crowd releases an audible, collective sigh of relief.

  My detractors have said my intent is to overthrow the nobility and confiscate all their property to redistribute it to the poor, Bolshevik style. The truth is, I’m trying to save the nobility from themselves. With reform, we can preserve the titles and protect the lands. If we carry on as we’re going, the people will eventually burn every country estate, palace, and castle in this kingdom to the ground. They’ll hang us all from the rafters.

  The archbishop steps to the side, clearing my way to the dais ahead and the ancient, ironwood throne where I’ll sit before being crowned. Another bishop approaches from behind, wrapping my shoulders with a floor-length ermine cloak. Once it’s tied securely across my chest by a valet, I walk forward, and with the assistance of two footmen charged with managing the cloak, I climb onto the dais, turn to face my people, and sit.

  A bishop approaches from below, kneeling before me bearing in his hand the Ring of the Realm, a heavy golden band set with eleven emeralds, each of them representing the eleven different counties that make up the Kingdom of Anglesey.

  I tell him to rise. He comes forward. I lift my right hand. He slips the ring on my finger, then kisses it as a bishop below us reads out the symbolic meaning of the item, and the blessing it brings.

  Another bishop approaches as before, with the scepter representing royal rule carried horizontally in his two hands. I instruct him to rise. He approaches, eyes down, lifting the thing to my right hand. I take hold of it. It’s an object of beauty: a golden rod capped with jewels, crowned with a figure of an open hand representing justice. I slowly turn my hand, moving the scepter to a perpendicular position, letting the base of the thing come to rest near my right foot.

  A third bishop approaches in the same way, carrying the blue and green glass orb that represents the Earth and my dominion. This he places in the open palm of my left hand.

  Finally, the archbishop comes forward, kneeling like the others, waiting for my command to rise. He bears in his hands the crown of Anglesey, an immense and ancient treasure that’s been used to crown the monarchs of this island for as long as there have been monarchs. It’s been altered over the centuries. What was once a simple band of gold has grown to receive intricate decoration and hundreds of finely set gems. There’s a new diamond added with each monarch who receives the crown. My diamond, a
four-carat, pear-shaped stone surrounded by a ring of small sapphires, is the thirty-third diamond set on the thing.

  When he rises, he lifts the crown high over my head for all to see, then slowly lowers it, settling it on my head. I was warned it would be heavy. It is very heavy.

  As soon as the crown is settled, the archbishop calls out, “God save the King!”

  His call is followed by a deafening chorus from the crowd. Every person inside the cathedral and outside on the streets, shouts in unison, “God save the King! God save the King! God save the King!”

  The bells of the cathedral chime, filling the nave and the whole world beyond with pealing, celebratory rings. The ringing continues for three minutes precisely, when the chimes are silenced. Outside these halls, church bells around the city and the country continue ringing for the rest of the ceremony, which includes the elevations portion of the event, where I trade my scepter and globe for a massive, sterling silver sword.

  The elevations go off without incident, with grateful nobles bowing and scraping, kissing my ring, some of them more emotional about their rise than others. I’ve saved the two best elevations for last.

  “His Majesty the King calls for his subject, Joseph Prescott Duncan!” a herald cries loudly. “Approach and kneel before your king!”

  Duncan looks like a deer in the headlights for a split-second, then he presents himself at my feet, kneeling before me.

  I read the words that make him a Knight of the Order of the Garter, and then make him an earl with right to bequeath the title to his heirs into perpetuity. He pledges his lifelong fealty to me as my “liege man of life and limb,” which as my bodyguard, he really is.

  I touch each of his shoulders with the flat edge of the sword, then present him with the sash and medal of the Order of the Garter, slipping it over his head with great ceremony. He looks down at the thing curiously.

  “I’ll explain later,” I say in a low voice, unable to suppress my smile. “It’s a substantial promotion from the royal guard.”

  Once Duncan returns to his place, the last of my subjects to be elevated is called.

  “His Majesty the King calls for his subject, Norah Elizabeth Ballantyne! Approach and kneel before your king!”

  For two hours, Norah has been seated in a box with Mother, Lloyd, and a dozen other members of the royal family. She’s expecting to be called before me, as I’ve promised to elevate her to Duchess of Brynterion, plus a few more noble titles to dignify her with. When she approaches, she looks a little unsettled and more uncomfortable than usual. A valet is required to help her kneel.

  I speak the lines that elevate her to Duchess of Brynterion, Duchess of Saxony, Duchess of Carnarvon. I then further name her Princess of Cymrea. I see Norah take a breath when I’ve completed the list. She waits for the command to rise, but I don’t give it. I keep her on her knees another moment longer.

  “And I elevate you, Princess Norah, my wife and consort, naming you Queen of Anglesey, co-regent and ruler at my side.”

  An audible gasp rises from the crowd. A murmur follows, rolling in the air as Norah recites her promise to be my “liege lady of life and limb.” The valet helps her to her feet. She looks up at me with the strangest expression, as if it never occurred to her I might raise her so high. She never expected it; she’s truly astonished. She also looks miserably uncomfortable standing before me, as big as (in her own words) the broad side of a barn.

  “Go sit down,” I say, smiling warmly at her. “Before you fall down.”

  The next phase of this drama requires me to appear outside for the crowd, in all my state: crowned, carrying my globe and scepter. It’s hard enough walking with thirty pounds of gold and gemstones on top of your head. It’s an athletic event to do it wearing a forty-pound fur cloak, carrying a ten-pound glass ball in one hand, and a twenty-pound gold rod in the other.

  I manage it, appearing on the front steps of the cathedral before a screaming crowd of thousands, all waving Anglesey’s flag, smiling happily. With my family surrounding me, the cathedrals bells chime again. I am now, finally, formally: His Royal Majesty, King Owen of Anglesey.

  Who needs a last name when you’ve got all that?

  The crown, scepter, globe, and ermine cloak go back in their respective cases, to be returned to the Cymrea History Museum where they will remain on display until needed again, which I hope is a long time from now.

  Standing in a curtained-off, private area on the west aisle of the cathedral, I wait with the family while the crowd of visitors make their way out. Norah is walking in circles, her hand on her belly, looking miserable. I’m cornered by cousins and uncles offering their congratulations.

  I finally manage to excuse myself to get to Norah, when I’m intercepted by Lloyd. He shoves out his hand. “You did well,” he says, seeming perfectly lucid. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand, expecting the next thing out of his mouth to be an incoherent rant of insanity. I get something else entirely.

  “This has been the longest bloody year of my life. Do you have any idea how tedious and difficult it is to sustain an act for that long? I can’t believe the lengths I had to go to to avoid wearing that godforsaken crown.” He sighs heavily, then smiles. “Thank you for being prepared to take it on. You were always more suited to it. Responsibility looks good carried on those broad shoulders.”

  He grins, slaps me on the back, turns and walks away. Mother glances in my direction, winks at me, then returns to her conversation with Uncle Rupert.

  She was in on it. Maybe the whole time. I’ve been boondoggled!

  Norah comes up beside me, taking my hand. “Owen, we should talk,” she says, a worried expression on her face.

  I’m afraid she’s going to protest her elevation, but I’m not hearing of it. She’s in this with me: we’re partners. From here on out, we’re sharing it all equally.

  “I think I’m in labor,” she says, grimacing uneasily. “The babies are coming—now.”

  “What?!” I exclaim. “Now? As in now?”

  She nods, breathing. “I need to get to the hospital, or I may have them right here in the church.”

  I look around. “Duncan!” I call, seeing him nearby, talking with another of the royal guard. “We need a car and a clear path to the hospital,” I say, pointing at Norah’s belly. “Now!”

  This isn’t a drill, and it’s not Braxton Hicks contractions; Norah’s water broke in the car on the way to the emergency room. She’s only thirty-one weeks pregnant and the babies are coming.

  We were supposed to have a special “royal delivery room” prepared for us, but we’re early, and the hospital isn’t ready. We get to do this just like every other parent in Anglesey does it.

  Duncan takes my coat and a nurse hands me a fresh gown and cap to wear into the delivery room. In just a few moments she’s squinting, clenching her teeth, and squeezing my hand so hard I think she might crack knuckles.

  “Breathe baby. Breathe. It’ll be okay,” I say soothingly, stroking her still-short hair.

  “It’s not freaking okay!” she shouts. “It fucking hurts!”

  “She’s almost fully dilated,” her doctor says. “Norah, this is your last chance. Do you want something for the pain?”

  She bites her lip, shaking her head. Then she howls with the worst contraction yet.

  “Crowning!” the doctor announces. “Coming along fast.” She turns to a nurse beside her. “Tell the NICU team to get their asses down here!”

  I’m breathing almost as hard as Norah, and I may be just as freaked out.

  “Norah, I need you to open up and give me a really good push.”

  There’s banter between the doctor and two nurses, most of it I don’t quite follow. What I do know is that the babies are going to be very small—maybe too small. An incubator is brought into the delivery room, accompanied by a small team who wait for the birth.

  “We’ve got twins coming on,” the doct
or tells the team. “31 weeks. Good vitals. No prior issues. Not sure why they’re coming early, but here we are.”

  Another contraction grips Norah’s body, causing her to push hard.

  “And… we’ve got a boy!” the doctor declares, cleaning him up while leaving the umbilical cord attached. He’s tiny, shockingly small. He’s pink and wrinkled, and silent, his little arms trembling, tiny fists clenched.

  Norah huffs, trying to roll forward to see him.

  “Norah, we have to keep him warm and help him breathe,” the doctor says. “I’d love to give him to you to hold, but he needs help.”

  She clamps the cord and cuts it, then passes the baby to the NICU team, who descend on the tiny thing, placing him in a plastic box, attaching all kinds of wires and tubes to his paper-thin skin.

  Just a moment later the second baby starts crowning. He comes hard and fast, and unlike the first one, he comes out fighting, then wailing pitifully, his tiny, underdeveloped little voice not more than a thin cry, despite his best attempts at more. He’s just as small as the first one, just as shriveled and pink. They look the same, with a downy fuzz of dark hair slicked to their impossibly small heads and dime-sized matching birthmarks on their little baby chests.

  “Go with them!” Norah begs me as they start to take our babies away. “Go and be with them and talk to them. Hold them as soon as you can, skin-to-skin!”

  I’m loathe to leave her, but I also know she’s not in danger. Our children are. “I will,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be back. I love you so much, Duchess. I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t come back,” her doctor says. “In a few hours, she’ll come to you.”

  Norah smiles, shoving me off. “Go take care of our boys.”

  The neonatal infant care unit is small and quiet, with the lights set low to protect prematurely born babies’ eyes. There are six other incubators here with six other fragile babies inside them. Mine get to share their incubator like they shared their mother’s womb.