Royal Affair. Laurie Paige
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long as the kingdom had existed. And they were as thoroughly English as the British crown.
“Yes.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Max recognized sympathy in the valet’s familiar gray eyes. Fifteen years older than his own thirty-three years, Bartlett was the only person alive who had witnessed the tears and sorrows of a young prince growing to manhood under the watchful eyes of his parents and the residents of the kingdom. The valet had been his most constant companion from the time he was six.
Taking a deep breath, Max let it out and with it the doubts and pain of what was to come. Today he would pass a life sentence on his uncle, his dead father’s half brother, and on the former minister of state, for high treason.
During the traditional year of mourning after his father’s death, the two men had planned a coup to take over the country before Max was formally crowned at the end of the grieving period. With the deed accomplished, they would then deny him reentry into the country.
Max had unexpectedly returned from eight restless, sorrow-driven months abroad a day before the attempt. That night, hired assassins had broken into his bedroom, planning to kill him.
Only he wasn’t there. He’d been at the resort, sleeping peacefully—his last night of rest in over six weeks—in the arms of the rose. The need to be with her had been stronger than the prickles of his conscience, urging him to return to the palace.
Staying with her had saved his life.
As for the traitors, confusion at not finding the prince in his bed had destroyed the attackers’ plans and timing. The royal palace guards had seen the men and arrested them.
The next morning, upon his return, he and the guards, assisted by his security advisor, had arrested the main culprits, his uncle and the minister, and quelled the coup before it had a chance to get started, much less succeed.
During the past month, the culprits had been tried by the High Court, composed of the twelve lord mayors, each representing one of the twelve counties of the country. The three members of the Supreme Court had sat as judges over the proceedings.
Today was the last step—the formal sentencing. Only the king could do that since it was a case of high treason. His title was Prince Regent until the coronation ceremony, but he was the ruler and the job was his.
“Will I do?” he asked impatiently.
After Bartlett had pronounced him fit to be seen, he left his suite in the residential side of the palace and strode toward the justice chamber where much of the business of the kingdom was conducted. He glanced at a portrait of a sixteenth-century ancestor as he strode the long corridor separating the two areas.
That particular king had been beheaded by a trusted friend while they were having dinner in the king’s apartment. Again loyal officers had saved the day and the infant prince and, therefore, the kingdom.
“There, but for the grace of God and an ironic twist of fate, I almost went,” he murmured, his blood warming at the memory of that night and the woman who had been as stirred as he by their kisses.
A door opened to his left, and his security advisor, who’d been his roommate and best friend at university in the U.S., stepped out. Like Bartlett, Chuck Curland looked him over as if to detect any cracks in his armor.
“I’m all right,” Max said tersely, although he hadn’t been asked.
His friend opened a door with a digital security lock, something new in the palace. All outside doors had already been converted. Inside ones were next, particularly his quarters. Dead bolts and high-tech locks. In a palace that hadn’t been locked since being built two hundred years ago.
Max entered the armory and strapped on the golden jewel-encrusted sheath and sword of the head of state. He left off the sash with its brooches and badges of honor. This was not a ceremonial occasion, only a punishing one. The sword of justice represented that fact.
“Do I look regal enough?” he asked, his smile tinged with bitterness at the thought of what was ahead.
“Royal to the bone,” Chuck assured him, grasping his shoulder briefly.
Few men would have dared touch him, but Max knew the gesture from his friend was one of solidarity. He turned and walked into the Justice Chamber before he blubbered like a baby at the betrayal of his uncle and the minister he’d also trusted. Kings were not allowed emotion.
“All rise,” the sergeant-at-arms intoned.
The court and its audience rose as one, heads bowed, as he took his place on the high seat behind the three justices. When he was seated, the crowd sat, too.
The bailiff presented the case to the king.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Max asked. As if he didn’t know.
“We have, Your Majesty,” the lord high mayor said.
The sergeant-at-arms received the signed verdict from the mayor and delivered it to the senior judge of the Supreme Court, who silently read it, let his two cohorts see it, then presented it to the prince regent.
Max read the paper, then, setting his face to no expression, spoke, “Lord High Mayor, how find the jury on the first charge?”
“We, the jury, find the defendants guilty,” the man said.
“Lord High Mayor, how find the jury on the second charge?” Max continued the formalized ritual.
“Guilty.”
The third charge?
“Guilty.”
The fourth?
“Guilty,” the head of the jury replied.
Max experienced not satisfaction but a great sorrow as the men were found guilty on all counts—treason, attempt to murder a head of state, conspiracy to overthrow the rightful succession of the kingdom, use of violence against a member of the royal house.
Gloom settled in his spirit like great weights strapped to his soul. Through the high, stained-glass windows of the courtroom, the world seemed to darken.
Ah, rose, I need you.
“Is the court ready for the sentencing?” he asked.
“The court is ready,” the senior supreme justice told him. “The defendants will rise,” he instructed.
Max sentenced his uncle and the minister to ninety-nine years in prison. Even after their deaths, their remains would stay in the prison cemetery until the full ninety-nine years were up before relatives could claim the bodies.
The two captains of the Royal Dragoons who had joined them in the conspiracy were given life sentences with no chance of parole.
The two hired assassins, who were not citizens of Lantanya, had already been tried in a lower court and sentenced to life. The men would work at hard labor and have no chance of getting out for thirty years.
At the end of two hours it was finished.
When Max returned to his quarters, his dress uniform was damp under the arms and down his back from the tension of sentencing four men he’d known from birth to a prison routine filled with work and, when not working, isolation.
Their lives would be almost as lonely as that of a king.
Bartlett quietly entered and removed the used clothing. “Will you be needing anything further?” he asked in the gentle tones he’d always used when Max had been a child and suffered some bereavement to his young soul.
“No, thanks. I’ll take a shower, then ring for Chuck when I’m dressed. Perhaps coffee when he arrives?”
“Muffins and fruit would be nice, too,” the valet suggested. “You haven’t eaten.”
Max nodded. “Okay. Give me twenty minutes. And, Ned, thank you.” He wasn’t sure what he was thanking him for. Perhaps for his unspoken sympathy,