Vows to Save His Crown

‘Go,’ Francesca urged, and gave her a little push. Rachel stepped through the palace doors. The noise greeted her first, like a towering wave crashing over her. They were cheering. She, the nobody who had been overlooked by everyone for most of her life, even by her parents, now had what felt like the entire world screaming their approval. It was daunting, terrifying even, but also, surprisingly and amazingly, wonderful.

‘Go,’ Francesca whispered, and Rachel started down the shallow steps towards the square, her gown fanning behind her in an elegant arc of lace-edged satin. She knew she was meant to keep her gaze straight ahead, on the path that had been cleared through the crowd, with crowd barriers keeping everyone at bay, but she couldn’t help but meet the gazes of some of the people who had queued for hours simply to be here, to see her.

‘Queen Rachel!’ someone called, and she nearly jerked in surprise. Queen Rachel. If that didn’t sound crazily weird...

‘You’re so beautiful!’ someone else shouted, and she let her gaze move amidst the crowd, settling on as many faces as she could and offering them her smile. Her bouquet was too heavy for her to free one hand to wave, and she hoped her smile was enough.

‘Thank you,’ she heard herself saying. And then, ‘Efharisto. Efharisto!’

The cheers continued all the way across the square, which felt like a hundred miles instead of the equivalent in metres. On impulse, at the doors to the cathedral, she handed her bouquet to a waiting attendant and lifted her hand in a wave that sent the crowd cheering even more wildly. Then she reached for her bouquet and headed into the cool, hushed interior of the cathedral.

She blinked in the candle-flickering gloom, the brightly painted icons of saints visible high in the shadows of the huge cathedral. She took in the pews and pews filled with guests in their wedding finery, and there, at the start of a very long aisle, Mateo, standing by himself, looking devastating in a white tie and tails, bright red and blue royal regalia pinned to his chest. A king. Her king. Waiting to escort her down the aisle and to the ceremony.

For a second, poised on the threshold of her entire life, Rachel hesitated as a thousand thoughts tilted and slid through her mind. Her hands tightened on the bouquet as organ music crashed and swelled.

This was happening. She was doing this. They were doing this. And she hoped and prayed that somehow it would be the right thing for them both.

* * *

Mateo’s gaze was fixed on his bride as she turned to face him. Her veil flowed over her shoulders in a lace river, her dress belling out behind in her in a floaty arc of satin. He reached out a hand and, with her gaze fixed on him, she took it. Her fingers slid across his and then tightened. The moment felt suspended, stretching on in significance, before Mateo turned and together they began to walk down the aisle.

He glanced at her as they walked—her chin tilted proudly, her shoulders back, her gaze straight ahead. She was elegant. Regal. Magnificent. Mateo’s heart swelled with pride and something else, something dangerously deeper, as they walked towards the altar. All the unspoken tension and coolness that had existed between them for the last two days fell away in that moment. They were walking towards their future together, and she would soon be his.

The ceremony passed in a dazed blur. As was tradition, every vow was repeated three times, and wedding crowns of laurel placed on their heads, rings slipped onto their right hands, the hand of blessing. The music swelled and Mateo lifted her veil. She smiled at him tremulously, everything she felt and more in her eyes. He kissed her, barely a brush of her lips, but it felt like fireworks exploding in his head.

How was he going to stand this? How was he going to maintain that necessary distance for his own safety, as well as hers?

The questions fell into the tumult of his mind and were lost as the ceremony continued, into their coronation. Now husband and wife, they ascended the steps of the cathedral and knelt, hand in hand, before the two thrones there.

The bishop placed the historic crowns on their heads; the weight was surprising, and Mateo glanced at Rachel, a tremor rippling through him at the beautiful sight of her—wearing both a crown and a wedding dress. His bride. His Queen.

Then the ceremony was over, the crowns removed, and the music started again. After helping her to rise, Mateo escorted her back down the aisle. They were married. Husband and wife, for ever.

‘Did that actually happen?’ Rachel asked shakily as they stood on the steps of the cathedral, blinking in the bright sunlight.

‘It most certainly did.’ Mateo glanced down at the ring sparkling on his hand. He felt changed in a way he hadn’t expected, on a molecular level. His whole being was changed, as if he’d undergone a chemical reaction without realising. He could never go back, and neither could Rachel.

‘What do we do now?’ Rachel asked. ‘I know I’ve been told, but everything feels different now.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ He felt a rush of gratitude and even joy that she felt the same as he did. They were changed.

‘I mean, there’s people, for one.’ She gestured to the crowds who had been waiting for them to emerge. ‘It’s completely different, to walk across that square when it’s filled with people.’

‘Of course.’ Mateo looked away, annoyed with himself for rushing to such a stupid, sentimental conclusion. They were changed. Right.

‘So should we go? Or do we wait?’

‘We can go.’ His jaw tightened as he reached for her hand. ‘Might as well get this over with.’

Hurt flashed in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘Is that really how you see it, Mateo?’ she asked quietly.

‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ he said a bit shortly, even though he had. He’d been reminding himself as well as her of what their marriage was really based on, and it wasn’t some stupid rush of emotion.

‘This is our wedding day,’ Rachel stated with quiet dignity. ‘The only one we’ll ever have, God willing. Can’t we enjoy it?’

He felt like a cad then, a real joy-stealing jerk. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Of course we can. Why don’t we give them a kiss?’

‘Wait—what?’