by Rachel Hauck
“The Wellington?” Cathedral City’s luxury hotel. Corina’s family had stayed there when they visited Brighton in the summers.
“Corina,” Mark said from the far corner, exerting what little backbone he possessed, “any day now.”
She made her way to his office, trying to figure out how she could get out of this outlandish assignment. Surely she’d run into someone from the royal family at the premier. Maybe Stephen himself. Then what?
Besides, how was going to a movie premier and conducting an interview with a long-in-the-tooth actor living a life of significance?
Just as she crossed into Mark’s office, the peaceful voice from the chapel, from church yesterday, moved across her heart.
Love well.
The simple communication aroused all sorts of ponderings. She still didn’t know exactly what it meant. Love well? Love who? Love how?
Shaking off the residue of the divine whisper, she set up at the conference table, preparing to show Mark, again, how the Post online assignment board worked. But he was on his phone now, so she paced over to his window, which faced the road and the community beside the Post building.
Across U.S. 1 was a Catholic church with a cross perched on the highest point of the pitched roof. The midmorning sun highlighted the icon, sending a long shadow of the cross over the four-lane road. The shadow also fell through Mark’s window and across his floor.
When Corina glanced down, the cross also covered her. Shivering, she stepped back. How was that possible? The church was sixty, seventy yards away.
Backing toward the conference table, she felt light and swirly. She steadied herself with her hand on the table.
“Ready?” Mark said, hanging up, coming around to the head of the conference table. “Let’s get to it.” “I’m meeting my wife at ten to look at a house.”
“R–ready.” But she wasn’t ready. For anything. She couldn’t collect her thoughts into anything cohesive. They were buckshot with the events of the weekend. And the shadow of the cross that had just fallen over her.
At that moment, a grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, it’s tone rich and resonate, coursing through Corina. She pressed her fingers to her temples, her heart palpitating with each bong.
For a wrinkle in time, she was atop the Braithwaite, in Stephen’s arms, dancing to the glorious symphony of Cathedral City’s nine o’clock bells.
“Stupid clock. Can’t keep time.” Mark shoved away from the table with an angry huff and opened the clock’s glass door, stopping the pendulum on the third chime.
“Wait, it wasn’t finished,” Corina said.
“Who cares. The time is wrong. My wife insisted I bring this thing in here. Give the office some charm, she said.”
Mark returned to the table, but Corina felt robbed, cheated, of the music that flowed from the clock’s time.
“Cheap old thing . . . my grandfather made it when he was a kid. In shop or something. I think I’ll tell maintenance they can have it.” Mark scooted up to the table with a glance at Corina. “Listen, I know you love working with that albatross of an assignment board, but come on, it was designed for Windows 3.1.1. I want to develop a new online board. I have a friend who is a developer and—”
“Give it to maintenance? You are willing to discard your grandfather’s clock because ‘it’s not working’?” Corina didn’t mask her emotions. Mark’s furrowed brow warned her she danced around crazy.
“It’s a clock, Corina. I don’t even think my grandfather liked it.”
“But it’s worth fighting for. You can’t just d–dismiss it—”
“Corina, what are you talking about?”
Love well.
Then she knew. She couldn’t just dismiss it. The door had been opened. Not just her heart, but his. A peace filled the cracks and holes of her soul. For the first time in over five years, she recognized a piece of herself. Until now she’d only been going through the motions.
“Mark, I’m going to do it. Cover the premier.” She left the conference table, her thoughts forward. She’d need to book a flight and the hotel. Do some research. Beef up her knowledge of King Stephen I history. And what had Clive Boston been up to lately? She’d need a premier gown. But she had just the one at home in Marietta. At the door she turned back to Mark. “I think a new assignment board is a fantastic idea. The staff will love it.”
She strode into Gigi’s office with her head high, shoulders square. “I’ll do it.”
“Of course you will.” The boss dragged her eyes away from her computer. “But what brings you in here to tell me?”
“The chimes of an old grandfather clock.”
NINE
Four days after his return from Florida, Stephen woke up panting, a fire blazing over his skin.
Corina had paraded through his nightmare, a death scene, weeping and wailing, wearing a white wedding gown stained with her brother’s blood, her golden-brown eyes wild with pain.
“Did I love him well?”
Stephen rolled out of bed and dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead into the thick carpet.
Rocking from side to side, he pleaded with his soul to end the night memories. He’d petition the Almighty, if he could muster enough faith to believe in the God who allowed bad things to happen.
He’d locked away every memory, his thoughts and feelings with the key of “Why?” If God “so loved the world,” then why did he stomach atrocities such as war?
Above all, why did a good man like Carlos Del Rey have to die while Stephen lived?
Either way, answers or not, this had to end. And it wouldn’t until he was back on the pitch with the rugby ball tucked under his arm, an intense defender the only thing chasing him.
After a moment, he gathered himself and showered. He had a full day ahead with no time to deal with black emotions and haunting, weeping brides.
But his soul was disturbed, tainted, and he felt helpless to do anything about it.
In the dining hall, Robert brought round Stephen’s breakfast, then produced an iPad.
“The King’s Office asked that I confirm your diary this week.”
Stephen nodded, sipping his tea. He’d always kept his schedule in his head, never bothered with a proper diary. Much to the chagrin of the King’s Office. Though to be fair, Stephen had, on occasion, missed an event. Which did not go well for him. Thus the need for Robert.
“You’ve Brighton Eagles Fan Day today at The Wellington Hotel. Thomas will be arriving at eleven to drive over with you.”
“Dressed and ready.” Stephen smiled, biting into his buttered muffin and picking at the sleeve of his rugby jersey. He’d watched the news while getting dressed earlier, and Channel One reported, “. . . over a thousand estimated to be lining Market Street. Many anxious to meet the team as well as a royal prince.”
As much as Stephen looked forward to the event, being with his teammates, meeting the fans, a crowd of thousands would pose security issues. Though five and a half years had passed without incident, Stephen carried a reflex in his body, ready to pounce should another familiar face, a friend—
“Sir, did you hear me? Tomorrow, Friday . . .” Robert carried on, reading from his iPad. “You open the youth rugby tournament. Have you a speech ready?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Right here.” Stephen tapped his heart. He didn’t need a formal script to speak to Brighton’s youth about rugby and the importance of sports.
“Two more items then you’re free,” Robert said, hiding his smile. He knew how tedious Stephen found all this i dotting and t crossing. “This coming Monday evening is the King Stephen I premier, where you are representing the royal family. Do you have everything you need? The palace will send the limo for you at seven. Thomas will go over the security details with you. There’s an after party to which I RSVP’d affirmative, but you’re not expected to make an appearance if you do not wish. I informed the hostess if you did attend, it would only be briefly.”
“Y
ou’re a good man, Robert.”
“This rather late request came yesterday evening. The Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show asked if you could come on as a surprise guest tomorrow, after opening the rugby tournament. The King’s Office left it to your discretion, though if you can see your way clear to be on the show, Albert believes it will be ‘good PR.’ ” Robert set down his iPad. “However, it is Madeline and Hyacinth, so no telling what mischief they’ve planned.”
Stephen washed down the last of his muffin with a heady gulp of tea. “Did they say why they want me on?” He leaned toward a yes, even after last week’s #howtocatchaprince Twitter campaign. Given time and perspective, the whole bit was rather clever.
Only caveat? He didn’t want to be caught in some sort of prank or “Here’s the winner of our contest,” to which he’d have to be princely and sweet to a woman he’d never met. On national television.
Still, Maddie and Hy were fun, creative, and the heart of Brighton Kingdom’s pop culture.
“They say they want to talk about the film,” Robert said. “The royal family, the history of the House of Stratton, and your rugby game.”
Stephen hesitated. “All right, I’ll do it. But I want a contract with a rider. I’ll not discuss the war or my love life.”
“Very well, sir.”
Stephen selected another muffin and reached for the jam. “What’s next? The art auction for the Children’s Literacy Foundation Tuesday?”
“Very good. Yes. And you’ve not forgotten your weekly dinner with your family Sunday evening.”
“Got it.” Though he had forgotten dinner with the family before. Stephen glanced at his watch, shoving the big bite of muffin in his mouth.
Thomas would be here shortly, and he wanted to run through some exercises for his ankle. The bugger hurt more than usual this morning.
“Your brother rang while you were dressing,” Robert said, closing the calendar on the screen. “He wanted to know how you were getting on with the task. Said you’d know to what he referenced.”
“The task is in limbo.” Stephen set aside his napkin and headed out of the kitchen toward the closet on the other side of the foyer. He wanted to take a couple of rugby caps he had made, like the ones professional players earned, to Fan Day for the kids. He’d find one or two he felt especially deserving.
“Is there anything else, sir?” Robert said, trailing behind him.
Stephen paused at the door. “I don’t believe so.”
“Nothing to follow up from your trip to America? Perhaps this task His Majesty mentioned?”
“Got it covered. Oh, set a late supper. I’m going to the stadium for a walk-through for the youth tournament opening.”
“Very well.”
Stephen made his way to his office. He had the better part of an hour to do his exercises, clean up his desk, and muse over how to get Corina to sign the annulment.
But Robert’s questions about America nagged him. Did he know something? Someone? Did Corina call? He felt exposed and vulnerable. And he didn’t like it.
He’d have to be careful. Keep an eye out.
A minute after 11:00 a.m., Stephen met Thomas in the garage. The man greeted him, folding up his newspaper and shoving down the last of a chocolate biscuit.
Slipping behind the wheel, Thomas detailed the security measures set for the event. “We’ve a green room set up for you and the team. I’ve two men at every door, and the hotel security will monitor the entrance and the lobby.”
From the passenger seat, Stephen listened. Then as Thomas backed out of the garage and merged into traffic, he said, “Do you think she told?”
“Who?” Thomas glanced sideways at him. “Corina?”
“Who else?” Stephen stared out his window, watching the hustle and bustle of Cathedral City whisk past.
“Who would she tell? Don’t see how it could be to her advantage after all these years.”
“Spite doesn’t always need advantage, Thomas.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but Corina doesn’t strike me as the vindictive type. Not her way. What makes you ask?”
“No reason.” Stephen sat back, stretching his leg, gently moving the kinks from his ankle. Blimey, the thing hurt today. “Robert was just asking if I needed help with anything from America. The way he said it piqued my curiosity.”
Besides Robert’s comment, remnants from his dream lingered, disturbing him in places he couldn’t reach with his thoughts.
If he had his way . . .
. . . he’d reverse his days, go back three months to the game against England and not take the sidestep that tore his ankle. He’d go back five and a half years and not hesitate that day in Torkham.
He’d go back even further and not recommend Asif as interpreter. And not recommend Carlos to his commander as a new member of his crew.
He’d go back six years and not propose to Corina.
All to save himself from what he wrestled with today. Sigh. This was not fruitful thinking. Come on, get your head in the game. Be on for the fans.
The car jerked and Thomas muttered, smashing the horn, ordering a slow-moving car to move out of his Royal Highness’s way. “Prince of Brighton on board.”
“Steady, mate,” Stephen said, exhaling, letting go of his thoughts. Of his regrets.
In another few minutes, Thomas turned down Market, whistling low. “Look at this.”
Thousands of fans lined the avenue, creating a giant, waving banner of blue and gold. Stephen’s heart warmed. This was what he lived for—the fans. He was their winger, and he was going to do everything he could to get back on the pitch.
Thomas maneuvered toward The Wellington’s circular drive, where bell caps swarmed, shoving the hordes out of the way.
“Stay put,” Thomas said as he got out, pushing the Audi’s door against the throng.
“I’ve faced Taliban bullets, Thomas. Surely I can manage a few maniac fans.” Stephen stepped out, rising to his full height, waving. This was his princely element. The fans roared, calling Stephen’s nickname, “Strat, Strat, Strat.” The noise was deafening under the covered drive.
“Didn’t they teach you to obey orders in the RAC?” Thomas shouldered alongside him. “This is a crowd. Have you forgotten the protocol?”
“It’s Fan Day. Give them what they want, eh?”
Besides, he couldn’t let fear sink in or he’d trust no one. He’d never leave the palace, always worried a rogue with a bomb lay in wait.
“But I’ll be the one who answers to the palace if something happens.” Thomas cut a path to The Wellington’s glass-and-concrete lobby, the shouts under the covering now a heavy, indiscernible sound.
The bell captain and hotel security darted from the expansive, sliding doors, pushing the crowd aside. “Stand back. Be orderly. You’ll get your chance to meet the team and the prince.”
The prince? The team would give him the dickens if he expected royal protocol.
“Welcome, Your Highness.” The hotel manager met Stephen just inside the door with a curt bow. “The green room is just this way.”
Suffocated by security, Stephen cut across the marble floor toward an unmarked door, the rise of the steel-and-windowed lobby peeking over him in a dome ceiling.
From his right, a beautiful redhead made a sultry, green-eyed approach.
“Your Highness,” she said as she curtsyed, “might I have your autograph?”
Stephen slowed, drawn in by her confidence and husky voice, but remembering he was not a free man. His heart sighed relief. He was pledged. For now anyway, and he liked the security.
Thomas blocked her next step. “Autographs are for the event only. Please wait in line.”
Stephen smiled, shrugging. Got to follow the rules.
“Then I’ll see you in the line.” She captured the pout forming on her lower lip and instead, gave him a rather saucy wink.
In the green room, Stephen greeted his teammates, joining in their banter, preparing to meet their f
ans, relishing in their recent win over Ulster and harassing the event coordinator as he tried to gain their attention. They were worse than schoolboys, and Stephen loved them.
“Please, pay attention. My name is Langley and I’m your host for the day. Now, the signing goes until six, no later.” Langley popped his hands together, looking as if he might say, “Children, children.”
“Gentleman, please focus. On me. If you don’t know what’s going on, I’m not going to tell you when you come round begging.”
“Listen up, lads,” Stephen said, tipping his head toward the coordinator. The team settled down. As much as he wanted to be just one of the boys, Stephen was ever aware of his royal status. He must be both man and prince.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Langley was prim and neat, too skinny for any adult man, but Stephen liked him. He seemed efficient and passionate about his job. “The hotel lobby has stations with your names. The fans will make their way in single file, receive a souvenir, then pass by the stations for signatures. Do not speak with the media.” He jabbed the air with his finger. “They will sneak in and try to trick you, but we’ve no time for their games.”
“You do realize you’re talking to rugby men, right, mate?” This from tight head prop Earl Bruce, who never knew a rule or regulation he couldn’t break.
“I do, and you realize you’re to be goodwill ambassadors for not only the sport of rugby but Brighton Kingdom. Do not forget your prince is among you.”
The boys jeered, and Randall Cummings, an Eagle center, slapped Stephen on the back, sending him forward, causing him to stumble and catch his balance with his left, aching foot. A slice of pain gripped his ankle. “Careful Randall, or I’ll never be on the pitch again.”
Langley snapped his fingers. “Still talking, still talking . . . Do not pause for pictures, or selfies, as they say, lest we be here all day.” The man gave them his best stern expression, but it only made the men snicker more and whisper barbs to one another. “There are more than five thousand people waiting to see you.”
That shut them up. Stephen peered at his mates. Every jovial rugby face turned to stone. It was one thing to play before tens of thousands in the stadium. The boys were in their element. But it was quite another to greet so many face-to-face.
