He says harshly, “Is it love, Ms. Turner, or a desire to be Queen?”
“My desire is to be with Alex forever and to have his children.”
“As Queen.”
“I would have loved Alex even if he was a commoner.” Tears spring to my eyes. Why is this clergyman so stony and forbidding?
He turns a tad calculating. “Would you love Alex if you remain a commoner?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Queen and I have discussed this at length.”
Of course. Anything the Queen has a hand in can’t bode well for me.
He leans back in his hard wooden chair.
“If you love Alexander . . . if you truly love Alexander . . . would you then consider being his mistress?”
I’m the count’s daughter all over again. Six hundred years apart, and it’s still happening.
I whisper, a hard lump in my throat, “Who would you have him marry then?”
“Lady Tatiana, of course.” He raises his bushy white eyebrows. “The Duke and I have spoken at length as well – ”
Oh my God, they have orchestrated this. All of them together! Alex was right. It’s a conspiracy.
“ – and we are in agreement that Lady Tatiana would not be averse to Alexander having you as a mistress.”
I wonder if Tatiana really agreed to that or she had her arm twisted. All this evokes a dreadful sinking sensation in my stomach.
I say in a shaky voice, “Alex would never do this. Never.”
“Alexander will come to his senses, as his father has before him.” The Archbishop smiles benignly. “I’ve seen them all grow up. There is too much at stake for them not to. The Kings of Moldavia always had mistresses.”
He acknowledges my panic-stricken face.
“Yes, even Alexander’s father. And the Queen totally condones it, because she knows that she is the one he truly loves in the end, for better or for worse. You would be very cared for as Alexander’s mistress. As a mistress to a King. You would have a mansion as your home, with maids to cater to your every whim. You would have horses and paddocks. A Swiss bank account. You may even have his children. They would not inherit the throne, but they would still be his children nonetheless.”
Why is everyone making me offers? Am I someone to be bribed out of the equation? Why not just poison me and get it over with? It would be easier.
Still, they are offering me a way out. A way out of all this unpleasantness. Where everyone would be happy. Except for Alex and myself.
But they are now willing to concede us that. We can be together.
Just not married together.
10
The Archbishop’s words weigh soberly in my mind like anchors dragging me down. I don’t want to talk about it to Alex, though I suspect the Archbishop . . . and the Queen . . . already have clued him in on the possibility to take me as a mistress. In short, Alex can have his cake and eat it too. It merely doesn’t have to be a wedding cake.
I slither into bed with Alex, dressed in just a mauve slip. We are still sleeping in the East Wing. The TV is on. The news anchorman shows the results of a CNN poll.
“An overwhelming ninety-six percent have voted that they fully support King Alexander Vassar and Elizabeth Turner’s marriage, despite the Archbishop of Moldavia’s wishes on the contrary.”
Alex is sober as the news clip changes to a scene of demonstrations taking place outside the churches – not only in Moldavia but throughout Europe. Even in the Vatican.
“It’s become a much bigger issue,” he murmurs. “It isn’t right. The people are confusing the issue with religion. It’s not a religious issue.”
“I know. What are we to do?”
He sighs. “I don’t know, Liz. I don’t know. My father wouldn’t have wanted this to happen.”#p#分页标题#e#
His eyes are glued to the TV screen, and his expression is pained.
A pang snakes to my chest.
He says, “People are throwing in all their pent-up frustrations about religious order and the clergy and using this as an excuse. Sooner or later I’ll have to say something, calm people down. These protests can escalate into violence, so it’ll have to preferably be sooner.”
There’s a faraway look in his eyes. He seems to have aged five years over the past few days.
My insides clench. I put a hand on his shoulder.
Instead of embracing me, he gets up from bed.
“I have to go do a few things,” he says, not looking at me.
“Tonight? But it’s late.”
“I know. But I’ll still have to do them. Don’t wait up for me.”
Something is wrong. I sense it in my bones, my flesh, the painfully contracting sac of my heart. But it is not in my place to stop him or even ask him about what he has to do. From the straight, firm lines of his mouth and the grim determination on his face, it will be something he has to do on his own.