CHAPTER 2 #2
"Our nearest allied bases are in Naples and Gibraltar. From Naples, it takes forty-eight hours to get a meaningful defensive force to our waters. From Gibraltar, even longer. By the time help could arrive, any operation would be a fait accompli."
I studied the charts and timelines, seeing the strategic problem laid out in stark detail. "So what's the solution?"
"The Americans have been negotiating a forward base agreement with us for months. Destroyers stationed permanently in Solmarian waters would cut NATO response time from two days to six hours. It would make any Russian action in the Mediterranean strategically impossible."
"But." There was always a "but" with my mother.
"But the agreement requires Congressional approval, and the American Congress won't authorize military deployment without a formal alliance treaty that demonstrates permanent commitment between our nations.
" She closed the folder and looked directly at me.
"Princess Bettina's return creates that opportunity. She’s both American and a Valdorian.
A royal marriage would create an alliance.
The alliance creates the treaty. The treaty creates the base rights.
The base rights prevent Russian control of Mediterranean shipping lanes.
And both Valdoria and Solmaria would be protected by your marriage. "
There it was. The reason I was sitting in this chair instead of grooming Azzurra.
"You're asking me to marry a stranger."
"You have to get married anyway.”
I made a face. “I thought I had a few more years.”
“You thought wrong,” she said wryly. “And unless you prefer the other marriage candidates you’ve been dancing with, this American is a perfect way for you to protect our country and our allies from economic strangulation." Her voice was steady, but I could see the strain in her posture.
I thought about Azzurra in her stall, peacefully awaiting the birth of her foal in a world where the biggest concern was whether she'd have enough hay.
About the life I'd built within the constraints of royal duty, where my greatest rebellion was learning to make pasta in Marcello's kitchen and occasionally wearing jeans without a belt.
The weight of centuries of royal responsibility settled on my shoulders like a familiar but unwelcome cloak. Or perhaps more like a wet wool sweater that someone had accidentally shrunk in the wash.
“What does she think about all this?” I asked.
“I’m sure she finds it wildly romantic. Rags to Riches. A Cinderella story come to life.”
"When do I meet her?"
"She arrives tomorrow morning. Assuming the initial negotiations go smoothly, we're looking at a wedding within a few weeks."
"A few weeks?" I repeated the words because surely I had misheard. "You want me to marry a complete stranger by then?"
"I want you to marry a princess by then. The stranger part is unfortunate but unavoidable."
“What if she doesn’t want to marry me?”
“Nonsense. Every girl wants to marry a prince.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
"I’d like a little more time to get to know her. For her to get to know me. Maybe we’re not compatible.”
"I don’t think we have the luxury of time or that Putin will change his mind about Mediterranean expansion." The bitter edge to her voice made it clear she didn't consider that likely. "It’s not as if the American Congress was interested in approving a defense pact up until now.”
“And they’re interested in one now?”
“It’s Grace Kelly and Meghan Markle all over again."
"They at least were actresses and used to being in the spotlight. This woman makes coffee for a living."
"She's a princess who happens to currently make coffee for a living. There's a difference."
"Is there? Does she know how to curtsy? Has she ever been to a state dinner? Can she tell the difference between a fish fork and a salad fork?"
"That's what staff are for." My mother's tone suggested I was being tedious, which, to be fair, I probably was. "She'll be trained. She'll learn. And in the meantime, you'll do your duty to this country just as every member of this family has done for the past eight hundred years."
I stood up, suddenly needing to get back to the stables, back to the simple problems of pregnant mares and feeding schedules and concerns that could be solved with patience and care instead of international treaties and loveless marriages.
"Archibald."
I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
"This marriage will work because it has to work. The alternative is unacceptable."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
The afternoon light from the tall windows caught the silver in her dark hair, and for a moment I saw past the royal mask to something that might have been genuine concern.
Or maybe just political calculation disguised as maternal worry.
With my mother, it was impossible to tell, and frankly, I'd stopped trying years ago.
"I understand that you're willing to sacrifice my personal happiness for the security of our nation," I said. "And I understand that you expect me to do the same."
"Good." She picked up her pen and returned to the documents on her desk, dismissing me as thoroughly as if I'd never existed. "Don't disappoint me."
"I'll do my best," I said. "Although I prefer tea over coffee."
She didn't look up, but I could have sworn I saw her lips twitch. Progress.
I left her study and walked back through the palace corridors, past the portraits of my ancestors who had all made similar sacrifices for crown and country.
Great-great-grandfather Wilhelm, who had married a woman he reportedly couldn't stand for forty years to secure an alliance with Austria.
Great-aunt Margarethe, who had been shipped off to Denmark at seventeen to prevent a trade war.
My own grandfather, whose arranged marriage had produced exactly one heir (my father) before both parties retreated to opposite wings of the palace and communicated exclusively through footmen.
What a legacy to live up to.
By the time I reached the barn, I'd almost convinced myself that I could survive anything if it meant protecting Solmarina from Russian aggression.
That maybe this American princess, this coffee-making barista from Oregon, would be easier to live with than I was imagining.
She certainly had to be better than Princess Anastasia of Belarus, Condesa Maria of Osana, or Princess Mathilde of Moravia.
Not that there was anything wrong with those noble ladies.
Just that they were a little too much like my mother.
Then again, Bettina was probably going to be all starstruck about being a princess. She’d probably be more concerned with shopping for a new wardrobe than trying to broker world peace. Or at least their section of the world.
Azzurra was still restless, pacing her stall with the awkward gait of late pregnancy.
Her chestnut coat had lost its usual luster, and she kept shifting her weight from hoof to hoof like she couldn't get comfortable.
I let myself into the enclosure and ran my hands along her neck, feeling the tension leave my body as she settled under my touch.
"Looks like we're both going to have to deal with some major changes, beautiful," I told her, breathing in the familiar scent of her mane. "At least your situation has a happy ending guaranteed. Mine's going to involve teaching an American how to use seventeen different spoons."
She nickered and leaned into my touch, trusting me completely despite having no idea what the future held for either of us.
If only human relationships were that simple. Though to be fair, humans rarely responded well to being offered a carrot as an apology.