Royally Remembered by Emma Chase

 

 

(13 years before Royally Screwed)

 

“At ten years old, I was still hopeful and optimistic. Still young . . . and tragically innocent.”

~Prince Henry, Royally Matched

Nicholas

IT BEGAN AS A PERFECTLYordinary day. The days that alter our lives always start that way—without a hint of warning. I had rowing team practice, morning classes, studying, lunch . . .

A quarter of an hour into my midday class, the black phone on the wall rings. Professor Dickenson takes the call, places it back on the hook, and turns to me.

“The headmaster wants to see you, Pembrook.”

I gather my books and leave, walking across the quad with two security guards following at a distance. They usually maintain a perimeter around the campus, but sometimes, for reasons no one tells me, security tightens—and today appears to be one of those days.

Headmaster is waiting for me in the open doorway of his office when I arrive. He guides me inside, closes the door, and takes a seat behind his desk while I take the chair in front of it.

“You wanted to see me, Headmaster?”

“Yes.” His hand reaches up to adjust his glasses—and it’s trembling. “I just received a call from the palace, Your Highness, with troubling news. The plane carrying the Prince and Princess of Wessco has . . . disappeared.”

It takes a moment for my brain to absorb the words.

“Disappeared? What does that mean?”

“We don’t know. It could be a malfunction in the plane’s tracking system. They’ve been unable to contact them, however, and they were scheduled to land some time ago but have not.”

A chill runs through me, my skin growing cold as my palms start to sweat.

“You and Prince Henry are to return to the palace immediately.”

Words echo in my head. My father’s smooth, steady voice when he and Mum came up to visit before leaving for their trip to New York.

Look after your brother. He needs you.

“They’ve tried to keep the news under wraps, but it’s beginning to leak out.”

I stand.

“Where is my brother?”

“He’s at recess in the courtyard. I was just about to—”

I don’t bother with explanations or goodbyes. I exit the building, not running, but walking in long, purposeful strides. There’s a crowd in the courtyard. A moving mass of dark-blue uniforms—and I know immediately that Henry is in the middle of it.

I push my way through before security can clear a path. In the center of the circle, Henry’s blond head is pushing into the chest of a bigger, older, uglier, boy. Their hands grasp each other’s jackets, tugging and tearing, fists punching.

The larger boy calls Henry a little shit and a red haze tinges my vision. I grip his arm—yanking him away, just as security gets there and separates them. Henry is panting hard, his cheeks red, his damp hair stuck to his forehead.

“Liar! Tell them he’s a liar, Nicholas! He said Mum and Dad are dead.”

“He’s a liar,” I say automatically. “We don’t know anything yet.”

I put my hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“The Queen has called us back to the palace.” My eyes meet the gaze of the dark suit closest to my brother. “Take him to the car. I’ll be along in a moment.”

After Henry is removed from the circle, the crowd goes quiet. Waiting and watching . . . always watching. I adjust my cuffs and turn back to the older boy.

And I slap him with the back of my hand.

A succession of gasps ripple around us, but then there’s nothing.

There’s no response from the boy before me—he just stands there with my handprint blooming crimson on his cheek.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. “You only pummel boys half your size?”

“It wasn’t my fault! I was only telling the others what I saw online. He started it.”

I smack him again.

“And I’m finishing it.”

I grip his collar, leaning into his face—my voice sharp and soft.

“If you ever put your hands on my brother again, I will have the men hold you down and cut them off. Do you understand me?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes . . . Your Highness.”

I glare into his eyes for one beat longer.

“Good.”

As I walk away I pull a handkerchief from my pocket, wiping the hand that made contact with his skin.

At the car, a security guard holds the door for me, but before I get in I hear my name.

“Nicholas!”

I turn and Ezzy slams into my chest—wrapping her arms around me and hugging me hard. Simon stands beside her.

“What’s happening, Nicholas? The things they’re saying . . .”

Things are always being said about us. Silly, hurtful, ridiculous things.

But this . . . this is different.

“I don’t know. But I think . . .” I choke on the words, to the only two people on earth I can admit them to. “I think it’s really bad.”

Ezzy releases me from her embrace.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“You have exams. Your parents . . .”

“I don’t care about bloody exams. And my parents don’t give a damn where I am, as long as it’s not with them.”

“I’ll ring you when I know more.”

She nods, and then she’s hugging me again—fiercely. And Simon puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. I’m lucky in that respect, to have two true friends. My brother doesn’t have that . . . he only has me.

They step back and I climb into the car beside Henry.

And they take us home.

Three days later, the Queen summons me to her office. It’s early, the sky still a dull, ashy gray. But there are guards and servants about, because even though the palace feels like the loneliest place on earth, you’re never really alone.

As I stand outside the royal office my feet feel heavy, as if they want me to stay right here, rooted to this place and time. Because beyond this gilded door lies something awful.

But then it’s too late. The secretary opens the door and I have no choice but to step inside.

Grandmother stands behind her desk, her back to me, gazing out the window with her small hands clasped behind her. My grandfather sits on the sofa, his head bowed, eyes on the floor.

And it’s so unlike him—I can’t help but stare. Willing him to look up at me. Wordlessly begging him to prove me wrong.

“Sit down, please, Nicholas.”

The Queen never says “please.” Not because she’s rude, but because monarchs do not request—they command.

So it’s that small, simple word that tells me everything I need to know. And any thread of hope I’d been holding on to crumbles to dust.

Grandmother turns, her gaze not really on me but at some point close to me. Her voice is shaky and soft.

“Your father and mother . . .”

She trails off for several seconds, then tries again.

“Your parents’ plane . . .” And again, the words fail her.

The silence stretches on until it becomes its own suffocating, unbearable thing.

“Just say it,” I whisper. “I already know. Just say it.”

In the end, my grandfather speaks for her.

“The plane has been recovered, Nicholas.”

I won’t understand until decades later—when I am a husband and a father myself—how excruciating the next words are for him. For both of them.

“There were no survivors.”

And for a moment, there’s no air, no light, I’m falling down and down—the walls closing in, compressing me. I stare hard at my hands. Focusing on the lines of my knuckles, a small cut at the base of my pointer finger, the translucent white beds of my fingernails. Because I don’t want to think about them; I don’t want to see their faces in my mind.

Smiling and beautiful, teasing and tender and alive.

I hear my dad’s words again . . . the last words I will ever hear him say.

Look after your brother. He needs you.

My throat throbs. I try to clear it, but it only aches more.

“I’ll tell Henry.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Grandfather says—making me turn to look at him. The lines on his face have become crevices; his eyes that always sparkle with vitality and wit are dull now. “It’s not your responsibility.”

Look after your brother. He needs you.

“I want to tell him. It should come from me.”

Because Henry can’t find out like this—not in this room with these stuttering starts and stops, and words Grandmother can’t bear to speak aloud. It’s already going to shatter him, but perhaps . . . perhaps if I can say it just right, it won’t destroy him completely.

Grandfather stands, his jaw tight and his back straight.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

The walk to Guthrie House is heavy and silent. Outside my brother’s door, Granddad puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Are you certain, Nicholas? I can be the one to tell him.”

I grit my teeth and look up at him.

“I’m certain.”

He nods, somberly.

“I’ll be right out here.”

In the sitting room, Henry has pushed the furniture and the rug against one wall, and is kicking a red rubber ball against the three-hundred-year-old plaster on the opposite side. It bounces back to him and when he sees me, he scoops it up, tucking it under his arm.

“Can we go outside yet?”

The palace has been on full lockdown since we returned—a prison of gold and marble. No one leaves or enters the grounds and no member of the royal family is permitted outdoors for an extended period of time.

“No, not yet.”

He grumbles, flinging himself back onto the sofa.

“I’m so bored, Nicholas.”

My stomach churns with sickness, because more than anything, I don’t want to do this. I would give my life to not have to do this.

“I need to tell you something, Henry . . . something terrible.”

He sits up, holding the ball in his lap, his green eyes wide with innocence.

“What is it?”

I sit down on the opposite end of the sofa, my knees shaking.

“They’ve found the plane.”

“Where was it? Are Mum and Dad coming home now?”

My stomach twists tighter.

“No. They’re not coming home.”

He blinks, his small brow scrunching.

“Why not?”

My throat burns with tears I will not shed and the words come out in a voice of ash.

“They died, Henry. The plane crashed and Mum and Dad died.”

The red rubber ball slips from his hands and bounces across the floor.

“That’s . . . that’s not true.”

I want to close my eyes, but I don’t. I look my brother in his tortured face and beg, “Henry, please—”

He stands up, his hands squeezed into fists.

“I’m going to tell Dad.”

“Henry, try to under—”

“I’m going to tell Dad you said that and he’s going to be so angry with you!”

“Henry, please don’t make me say it again! Please.”

For several agonizing moments, he’s silent. His lower lip quivers, but he doesn’t cry. He glares at me like he hates me . . . like he hates the whole world.

“Get out.”

I reach for him. But he backs away.

“I want to be alone,” and his voice is breaking now. “Just . . . please just leave me alone.”

I stare down at the floor, because I’ll fall apart if I look at him any longer.

Look after your brother. He needs you.

I leave my little brother standing there and walk back out into the hall, closing the door behind me.

“It’s done,” I tell Grandfather. “He knows.”

“I’ll check on him soon. Let’s you and I go for a walk now.”

“We’re not supposed to go outside.”

“I’m overruling that edict.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need a walk.”

The weight of his warm, large hand rests on my back.

“I do.”

Despite my insistence that I didn’t need a walk, once we’re outside and heading away from the palace, my pace picks up. Like I’m running away from home . . . running from something.

Granddad keeps up, his steps matching mine. Until we come to a stop in a small clearing toward the rear of the estate, enshrouded with brush and shaded by oak trees. From this vantage point, we could be anywhere, a thousand miles away—we can’t see the palace, and no one from the palace can see us.

“It’s all right to be sad,” Granddad says gently. “You know that, don’t you?”

I keep my gaze ahead and I don’t answer.

“It’s all right to cry, Nicholas. I won’t think any less of you, I swear.”

I look up into his face—it’s his eyes that undo me. Not the anguish swirling in their depths, but the overwhelming care and concern . . . and love.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” I tell him.

“No.”

“They’re supposed to still be here.”

“Yes.”

I turn away, bending at the waist, gagging and retching even though my stomach is empty. And I remember a story from the Bible, a story of Jesus sweating blood in the garden of Gethsemane.

Let this cup pass from me . . .

“It’s not fair,” I gasp out, ridiculously.

Childishly.

Because I can’t think of any other words to describe this pain.

The incomprehensible loss of them.

My grandfather kneels beside me and pulls me into his arms, holding me tight. I cling to him, crying against his shoulder in great heaving sobs, like I never have in my life.

And never will again.

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.”

I feel his hand stroking my hair. I hear the raw scrape of his voice and I know he’s weeping too.

“No. No, my boy . . . it’s not fair at all.”