“Yes,” her friend remarks. “I say let true love rule, not some stupid historical law that no one in this century even remembers.”
I do so agree.
I switch channels. A talk show is going on. A famous Moldavian politician is on air.
He says, “It seems that King Alexander and Elizabeth Turner have the popular backing in this issue.”
The host asks, “So do you think the Archbishop will be swayed by the popular tide? Even the world press has chimed in with their views. The church has already lost ground. Attendance is at an all time low. The Vatican is concerned that youths around the world might turn away from religion because it is deemed outdated in its views.”
“That true love doesn’t triumph all the time?”
“That true love cannot reverse historical tradition.”
“The Archbishop has always openly disapproved of King Alexander’s former lifestyle. He has been quoted before as saying it was ‘godless’. So it comes as no surprise that he is against this marriage, especially since Lady Tatiana has donated much to the churches of Nuernberg and Moldavia.”
“Yes, her father is building a new cathedral. What do you think of this whole matter, Monsieur Flaubert?”
The politician hesitates. “It is tempting to give in to the popular vote. However, it would mean flaunting six hundred years of tradition. Are laws to be repealed simply because a new monarch doesn’t like them? King Henry VIII separated the Church of England from Rome for that very reason. But we are no longer in the sixteenth century.”
“Indeed. Big debates are opening up all over the world on this.”
The door whines open. I jump. Alex comes in, looking tired. From his grave features, I know that he has been unsuccessful in swaying the Archbishop.
“No luck?” I say.
He shakes his head. “He says it’s not what my father would have wanted.”
My heart sinks to my stomach. I know for a fact that is true.
“But I see the hand of my mother in this. Not only my mother, but Nuernberg. They intend to push us into a corner.”
He gazes at the images onscreen, his eyes glazing. More student marches are being held.
He says, “This is not what I want Moldavia to become. I don’t want the people to go against the church.”
“Can you try to talk to him again?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve talked to my mother, Liz. She is completely on the Archbishop’s side. That’s why she was so calm when I announced my intent to marry you earlier. She knew this would happen.” His voice turns bitter. “In fact, I think she orchestrated it.”
I am not surprised.
I remain silent, my mind churning with possibilities.
“They are pushing us into a corner, Liz. Everywhere we turn, they put obstacles in our path. There’s too much at stake for everyone where Nuernberg is concerned. They are determined to make us jump through hoops until I do what they want.”
His face is anguished as he turns to look at me.
“Even though I am King, they intend to make me their pawn. When will it end?”
My gut wrenches painfully.
We were so happy . . . so happy.
I close my eyes.
I know what I must do, and I’m not going to involve Alex.
*
The Archbishop agrees to meet me in his private quarters in the Ecclesiastical Castle. Everything is Spartan there. There is no fire in the fireplace, even though it is winter. The coals have not been stoked. The furniture is made out of hard wood as though to drum penitence into those who choose to occupy these chambers.
Oh no, I think. He is a hard man. He won’t be easy to sway.
He is as stern-looking as I remember him. He does not smile as he gets to his feet.
“Ms. Turner?” His accent is heavily French.
“Your Grace.” I curtsey.
I shiver, wrapping my coat around me. The castle is chilly. How does he stand it without a heath fire or radiator?
“Please, have a seat.” He waves to one of the two chairs in front of his desk.
I seat myself in the left one. It is as hard as I imagine it to be.
We exchange mild pleasantries.
“Are you a Catholic, Ms. Turner?”
“Uh, no.”
He does not say anything to this, though the slight curling of his mouth suggests that he possibly thinks I’m as godless as Alex.
Not a good start.
He waits attentively for me to begin.
“Your Grace, I know Alexander has been to see you.”
He nods.
“I beg of you to reconsider. We . . . we . . . ” I cast my eyes down desperately. He intimidates me so. “We love each other very much. We just want to be together. Surely love has to count for something.”
I raise my pleading face to his. I don’t know what I must have been thinking – that my declarations of love for Alex would melt his hardened heart perhaps. That he would take one look at me and know that I am not an opportunist . . . perhaps.