Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  His forehead crinkles. “It doesn’t look fun at’all.”

  “Exactly.”

  My next destination is a good four hours’ drive away—not quite the middle of nowhere, but far from anywhere that’s considered somewhere. In the car, I review the latest tax report. Since the war ended, revenue has been in steady decline and Parliament wants to hike up taxes. But the issue isn’t that taxes are too low; it’s that jobs are too scarce.

  And you can’t get blood from a stone, no matter how many times you bash it with a meaner, heavier rock.

  I set the report aside as we pass through the wrought-iron gates and head up the winding drive. The rain has stopped, a thick foggy mist rises from the ground and a fragile glimmer of sun peeks out from the clouds as the massive gray structure comes into view.

  Anthorp Castle.

  It’s the stuff of fairy tales. All smooth, shiny stone, arched windows, floating footbridges and soaring turrets—with the angry green sea crashing against the rocks below the cliff on one side, and miles of wild forest on the other. I was raised amongst castles; they are as common to me as bed linens . . . but this one still manages to take my breath away.

  Two flags fly from the highest tower—the Wessco standard and just slightly lower, the banner of the Rourke family, proclaiming that the master of the house, the dear Duke of Anthorp, is in residence.

  I find Thomas in the morning room with his feet up on a leather ottoman, his hands tucked behind his head, his white shirt open and his chest on display in all its pale gleaming glory.

  And he’s not alone.

  “Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

  Michael Fitzgibbons bows his dark auburn head as he greets me. Michael’s the third son of a viscount and an artist, a painter. He’s a beautiful young man—how the statue of David would look if it came to life and walked out of the museum. He’s Thomas’s special friend. They spend time together as often as they can when Thomas is away from his parliamentary duties.

  Michael sits down in his chair and refocuses on the chessboard on the table between them.

  “We were just about to have lunch, Lenora,” Thomas says in a raspy voice. His glasses are off and his eyes are closed, his head tilted back. “Would you like to join us?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  And then my nose begins to burn with an odor—as if something had crawled from the sulfur pits of hell and died under Thomas’s chair.

  “Holy God, what is that stench?”

  “Eucalyptus ointment,” Thomas says. “For this bloody chest cold that won’t go away. You get used to it after a bit.”

  Michael slides his rook across the board. “Yes, after the nerve endings in your nostrils shrivel and die.”

  Thomas makes the “tossing off” motion with his fist. A gesture I didn’t even know existed until he taught it to me when I was seventeen. That and “the finger.”

  Very cathartic.

  Thomas opens his arms and wiggles his fingers toward me. “Come, let me hug you. Then we can all be offensive together.”

  “No thank you. You’re offensive enough for all of us.”

  Michael raises his glass of wine. “Here, here.”

  Despite the smell, I shift Thomas’s feet and sit on the ottoman, taking over his chess game with Michael, moving his bishop into a more aggressive position against the king.

  “I have a proposition for you, Thomas.”

  That gets his eyes open. “Is it a naughty proposition? You know those are my favorite.”

  “Depends on your definition of naughty. What do you think of taking a place on the Advising Council?”

  He’ll have to give up his family’s seat in Parliament—those are the rules—and we are nothing if not sticklers for rules. But the Council is a loftier position, more coveted, and more powerful. If Thomas wants to leave his mark on Wessco, the Advising Council’s the place to do it.

  “I think the sods on the Council will say it’s borderline degenerate,” Thomas replies.

  “Probably.”

  Michael moves his knight and I take it with my queen.

  “They’ll fight you on it,” Thomas says. “They’ll say I’m too young, too reckless, not nearly wise enough.”

  “Highly likely,” I reply.

  He sips from his brandy glass. “Though what I lack in age, I make up for in experience and a bombastic personality.”

  Michael raises his glass. “Agreed.”

  I pick up one of the chess pieces, gazing at it for a moment.

  “The queen is the most powerful piece on the board—did you realize that? But without her bishops and knights around her, she never lasts long.” I place the piece back down. “I plan on lasting, Thomas. So I didn’t come here to ask you what the Council would think. I want to know what you think.”

  A grin spreads across Thomas’s lips.

  “I think their heads may actually explode. Won’t that be fun?” He lifts his glass. “Count me in.”

  “Excellent.” I smile. And then I make my final move. “Checkmate.”

  The King’s Advising Council is an institution as old as the monarchy. There’s a room in the east corner of the palace where they meet. Where they’ve always met since the royal palace was completed in 1388, fifty years after Wessco was founded by its very first king, a former British general and husband to the daughter of Robert the Bruce, my ancestor John William Pembrook.

  That’s over five hundred years’ worth of meetings . . . in the same room.

  Despite my belief that the Council could use a little shaking up, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit awed by the institution itself. I want to make a good impression. These are the men who’ll be working side-by-side with me, who will guide me through the political and legislative land mines to turn my dreams for my people into reality.

  They’re here to help me do my job—and do it well.

  At least, that’s the idea.

  For the last few weeks, I’ve conferred with Alfie about tax revenue and researched the legalities of the jobs program with Thomas. I have reports that I dictated to Cora. I have colored charts, and they’re magnificent.

  I have the cure for all of Wessco’s ills. I’m ready.

  There are no windows in the Council Meeting Room—better to prevent assassination attempts—but the room is accented in calm, deep purple with pleasant landscapes in oil framed on the walls. There’s a sideboard for meals, tea and wine, and while the long, rectangular table and chairs in the center don’t exactly look comfy, they are majestic.

  There are six lords on the Council—eight now, if you count Alfie and Thomas.

  There’s my uncle, the Duke of Warwitch—a younger, lesser version of my father.

  The Tweedle twins—Bartholomew and Bertram—the Marquis of Kooksbury and Fernshire, respectively. However, behind their backs they’re known as Tweedledum and Tweedledee because of their name . . . and because of the odd egg-like shape of their bodies.

  Next there’s Christopher Alcott, the Duke of Sheffield, a distinguished former ambassador and highly respected scholar.

  There’s also dear Montague Spencer, the oldest man in the government and the Earl of Radcliffe. He’s so old, no one can recall a single memory of him as a boy—not even himself.

  Finally, there’s Elliot Blackburn, the pious and powerful Marquis of Norfolk, who is rumored to have never smiled a day in his life.

  I walk in the door promptly for my first meeting with my Advising Council, my reports and trusty charts tucked beneath my arm.

  And it all starts off so well.

  They stand and bow and I greet them with a “Good morning, my Lords.” Then they sit and I sit and I begin with, “Let’s get started.”

  And that’s it. That’s the good part.

  It all goes straight to hell from there.

  Because next I say, “There are several issues facing our country that the Crown and Parliament must work together to resolve. But I believe it’s very clear to all of u
s here which issue must take precedence before any other can be addressed.”

  They all nod and I nod and we’re all nodding along . . .

  Until we give voice to what each of us believes is the top priority.

  Alfie, Thomas and I say, “Jobs.”

  The rest of the tossers blurt out, “Marriage.”

  That’s when the nodding comes to an end.

  And the chaos descends.

  “Pardon?”

  “What?”

  “Who?”

  “How, now?”

  “Eh?” Lord Radcliffe cups his ear. “Did she say jobs? Jobs doesn’t sound like marriage.”

  “Whose marriage?” I ask.

  “Your marriage,” the Duke of Sheffield responds.

  “I’m not getting married,” I choke out.

  This gets Tweedledee in a tizzy. The first of many.

  “But, but . . . of course you are!”

  “You must!” Tweedledum concurs.

  “The people are looking forward to a grand wedding,” my uncle says. “It’s all they’re talking about in the pubs and cafés and knitting circles—what handsome prince is going to ride off into the sunset with our lovely new Queen.”

  “I have no desire to get married,” I try.

  My uncle fancies himself a comedian. “I don’t blame you. I’ve been married twice and I’m still not keen on it. But you really must.”

  “It’s imperative!” Old Man Radcliffe shakes his fist and shouts so he can hear himself.

  “Why is it imperative?” Thomas asks.

  Tweedledee’s tizzy worsens.

  “Wh . . . wh . . . why? We’ve never had a queen, let alone an unmarried queen! What about tradition and propriety?”

  Tweedledum makes the sign of the cross.

  “Parliament must have assurances,” Sheffield explains. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, they are concerned that you are a woman. They worry your ideas may be somewhat radical or . . . hysterical. They believe a husband would curb you of such tendencies.”

  “Curb me!” I gasp. “If marriage was such a priority, why didn’t my father arrange it years ago?”

  Norfolk speaks for the first time.

  “Because he wanted you to have a say in the final decision.”

  I look to Alfie to confirm that statement, and with a nod, he does.

  “Well, my say is, ‘No.’ Now, then—”

  “But who will be your escort on state visits?” Tweedledee exclaims.

  “Or when visitors come here to the palace!” Tweedledum adds. “The American president is set to visit next spring. You can’t stay in the palace with him. Alone!”

  Thomas rolls his eyes all the way up to heaven.

  “Yes, they’ll be right on top of each other in the fucking palace. And that Eisenhower looks like a wily one, all right.”

  “Precisely!” Tweedledum has no concept of sarcasm.

  “You are only nineteen, Your Majesty,” Sheffield explains calmly. “And you look even younger. You must mature your profile on the international stage if you hope to be taken seriously.”

  “Elizabeth the Second of England was only a few years older than I am when—”

  “Elizabeth was a married woman with two children when she became queen,” Uncle Warwitch interrupts. “To the world you are a young girl—a virgin princess.”

  Norfolk leans forward. “You are a virgin, aren’t you?”

  Oh for the love of Christ.

  “I don’t see how that’s—

  “And she’s pretty!” Radcliffe shakes his head like it’s a catastrophe. And all my fault. “Terribly pretty!”

  Norfolk narrows his eyes. “Yes, pity, that.”

  “If you were ugly or more masculine in countenance, then maybe . . .” Tweedledum says.

  “But no, you must be married,” my uncle agrees.

  “It’s the only solution,” someone—I don’t know which one—says.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “No other option.”

  “Married.”

  “Married.

  “Married!”

  The word echoes in my mind like a death knell. And all my amazing plans waft away in a puff of smoke. Before I can stop myself, I’m standing up and crying out.

  “But . . . but I have charts!”

  And the room goes silent.

  I was ready for the Council to disagree with me on some points, to have to fight for Alfie and Thomas’s seats. I was prepared for them to be stodgy, stubborn—they’re old men and I’ve been dealing with their old-men attitudes my entire life. But I wasn’t expecting this. The utter disregard. The dismissal.

  That they would reduce me to nothing more than pretty mortar, to be used to shore up the bricks of alliances. Only this time it’s the alliance with our own Parliament.

  The disappointment is fucking crushing.

  Alfie looks at me with pity, and I can tell Thomas is raring to cut them all down on my behalf. And somehow that makes it even more humiliating.

  “Excuse me, I . . . need a moment.”

  I walk out the door and down the hall to the washroom. I rinse my hands with ice-cold water and press a wet cloth to my face. And then I stare at my own eyes in the mirror.

  And I will myself to become steel. Coated inside and out. Even if just for a little while. Cold, hard, undentable—nothing can hurt steel; you can pound your fist against it a thousand times and all you’ll have to show is a wounded hand.

  There’s a knock on the door. When I open it, Thomas is in the hall. He adjusts his glasses worriedly. “Are you all right?”

  My knees tremble beneath my skirt, but it’s not from upset.

  “They think I’m weak. All of them.”

  He nods somberly. “Yes.”

  “They think I’m just a girl.”

  Thomas looks ashamed of the entire male species.

  “They do.”

  I look up into his eyes.

  “Then it’s time to show them that they are very, very wrong,” I say.

  He stares at me, and slowly a gleam rises in his eyes and a smile slides onto his face.

  “All right. Let’s do that.”

  He gestures for me to lead the way and follows behind me as I walk back through the door.

  They all stand when I enter. But now I know it’s just for show. The pageantry of respect.

  “Please, my Lords . . . sit.”

  Once they’re seated, I walk around the room with my hands folded behind my back. Slowly, like a shark that doesn’t want to worry its prey.

  Or that American Al Capone chap—with his baseball bat.

  “I have taken your advisement under consideration. I believe we should speak plainly in this room—all of us. There is much to be done and I have no patience for polite words for protocol’s sake.”

  Everyone agrees—there’s more nodding of heads and tapping of canes and the rapping of knuckles on the table.

  “In the spirit of frankness, I need you to understand . . . times are changing. Those who refuse to roll with change get run over by it. Buried beneath the weight of their own outdated views.”

  I pause at one end of the table, turning toward them.

  “I may be a new queen, a young queen, even a pretty queen—but the fact remains, I am the queen. Your queen. I’m all you’ve got, gents. I’m all Parliament’s got. There is no prince coming to curb me. The next man on this council who brings up the topic of my marriage to anyone . . . will no long be on this council. Is that perfectly clear?”

  No one has ever been kicked off the Advising Council—but there’s nothing in the law that prevents it. It would be an embarrassment, a public shaming, career ending . . . and absolutely, perfectly legal.

  They look at me—some in surprise, maybe shock or fear, others with barely concealed anger and resentment simmering on their faces.

  And I look right back at them. Daring them to contradict me. Feeling the power of my
name, my position, the history of my nation and the generations of kings that came before me, who sat and ruled and made decisions in this very room.

  I will not be cowed by small men with oversized opinions of themselves. I will not be cowed by anyone.

  When the final member of the Council, my Uncle Warwitch, lowers his eyes, I move back to the head of the table.

  “Good.”

  I sit down gracefully and fold my hands.

  “Then let’s begin.”

  And I thought it was done. I thought that settled it.

  It turns out I was also very, very wrong.

  FOR THE NEXT TWO MONTHS, the gears of government in Wessco grind to a halt.

  “Parliament will not bring this legislation to the floor. They refuse to consider it.”

  “But they must.”

  “No, they don’t. And they won’t.”

  Worse than a halt. If we were a racehorse, we wouldn’t just not be out of the gate, we’d be trotting arse-backwards around the track.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re asking, Your Majesty?”

  And it’s all my fault.

  “Mandatory military service will be a drastic change to our system. Change requires time and will . . .”

  For having ideas that will actually bloody work.

  “It’s a jobs program! An education program. The people will have money in their pockets and come out of the service with skills for employment in the private sector. The national defense will be strengthened and tax revenue will go up. This is not difficult to understand.”

  “It’s a never-ending draft. You are asking the people to send their sons to war for you, without any choice in the matter. Yet you have no son or brother . . . or husband to sacrifice.”

  “I wanted to include the women too,” I shoot back. “To give the ladies of Wessco more occupational opportunities.”

  Tweedledee makes the sign of the cross again.

  I believe he thinks I’m a demon. Sent from hell to distress him. I won’t be surprised if one day he pours holy water in my tea, just to see if I’ll melt.

  “You didn’t even carve out an exemption for your noblemen. No wonder the House of Lords refuses to consider it.”

  I rub at the throbbing between my eyes.