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“The media is already bombarding us with questions about who is next in the line of succession. That would be you, Jakob,” Torben says.
I feel so petty. My earlier motivation to accept the throne just to get back at my supposed absentee father seems so hollow now.
“A real family and a widow is grieving. Now is hardly the time for these kinds of decisions,” I say.
Torben shakes his head. “There is no decision, really. You’re next in line. The crown is yours, Jakob.”
Jo stands and goes wordlessly into the bathroom and shuts the door.
Hailey’s gaze follows Jo, then she turns to me.
“This has all been too much for her.”
“Should I go talk to her?” Hailey asks.
I’m touched by my sister-in-law’s kindness. “Maybe in a few minutes, yes.”
Maybe another perspective from a commoner will help.
Torben stands. “For now, we have a funeral to plan. The coronation will come soon enough.”
The next week is marked by a heavy somberness in the palace, tinged with an odd sense of relief that no one is speaking about.
I notice it in overheard comments such as “I suppose the queen won’t be so hard-pressed to compensate for the king’s rudeness to visitors.”
And then there’s the hushed exchanges among the palace guards to the effect of, “Uther won’t have to assign us to accompany the king on his secret visits.” These sorts of comments are met with a lot of nudging and shushing and reminders not to speak ill of the dead.
Despite what is known or unknown about the king, the country is in mourning. The once-bustling corridors are hushed, and the palace’s grandeur takes on a muted tone as is dictated by tradition. The daily fresh flower bouquets are noticeably absent. The chandeliers are put out, most other lights are dimmed, and portraits of the king are covered up in black cloth.
The funeral is likewise a solemn affair, attended by dignitaries, palace staff, and those who had been touched by the king’s reign.
Jo stands by me throughout the day’s events. She soldiers through in another styled outfit that has her in sensible heels that are still not sensible enough for my Jo.
She’s far too good to me, but she’s especially attentive to the queen and her new sisters-in-law.
The only eulogy given for the king is by the high priest, who knew King Otto since before he rose to the throne. Perhaps his only friend.
At the private luncheon following the ceremony, the queen delivers a fairly perfunctory speech only to family, staff, and a few close friends.
Although it has all the trappings of a state funeral—even the prime minister is in attendance—none of it has any of the warmth one would expect from someone this well-known. No celebrities, no music, no sweet sentimental touches that bring the grieving together.
Not, at least, until Flora crosses to the chapel’s podium.
“My earliest memories involve my father, the king. I don’t remember any gifts he ever gave me. I don’t recall any of his stern lectures or rules. After all, we know those rules could change from day to day, and we further know I never followed any of them.” The laugh from the audience seems to raise the temperature in the room. Looking around, these are the first smiles I’ve seen all day.
Flora continues, “But I always remember how he spoke to me when we were alone. He never wanted to be seen as soft when he was with his sons or out in public. But when we were alone, the king was just Dad. I saw a side of him no one ever got to see because I was the only daughter. He would always say to me, ‘Must you always keep me on my toes?’ He would say this with a rare smile. I would say, ‘Someone’s got to. I’m the only one not scared of you, Dad.’ And he would laugh. I wish you could all have heard him laugh. That is what I will miss about my father the most. He didn’t always say he loved you because he didn’t know how. But he loved you all, and he loved being your king.”
The woman has saved the day. For the grieving. For the media. For the kingdom which, let’s face it, has been a bit of a laughingstock ever since Torben abdicated.
After the ceremony, Jo and I are approached by Uther. “The queen has expressed her gratitude for your attendance. She wishes to speak with you both.”
In a private chamber within the palace, we find ourselves facing the queen. Her eyes are heavy with grief and—unfortunately—disappointment.
“Thank you for being here,” the queen begins. “I hope you know the revelation of your birth did not cause my husband’s death. It was alcohol and saturated fat.”
I don’t know how to react until the queen smiles. “It’s okay. You can laugh. The king appreciated a little dark humor. That was one of the things that kept us together for so many years.”
I give a half-hearted chuckle, and she goes on. “The king wasn’t much for talking through things. He carried on, did whatever he wanted. Whenever I called him out on his extra-marital excursions, he would behave as if it were old news. As if that were part and parcel with being royalty. And now I think perhaps being burdened with leading a kingdom was too much for him, and the affairs were his way of acting out. I believe a kingdom better belongs to someone who is humble. Who understands the significance. Who approaches it with a level of awe rather than entitlement. Honestly, that’s not entirely his fault—it was the same with the man who raised him and all the monarchs who came before him.”
