Page 9 of Royal Catch
She licks her lips, staring at the new arrival. Gabriel. The blood rushes through my veins because for once he doesn’t look too perfect. In fact, he looks almost normal in a gray T-shirt with black athletic shorts. His regal stance, proud and powerful, gives him away though. What I thought was a stuffy butler proud of his place in the household was actually a prince groomed to be king. Aviator shades hide his expression, though his jaw still looks tight, his full lips pressed together. The queen must really be taking this competition seriously to involve Gabriel. Where’s the king? Is something wrong with him? And why are they giving away riches? Is something wrong with Villroy itself? How am I the only one with questions? Did all of these princesses have curiosity drilled out of them with their etiquette lessons?Smile demurely, go along, follow the protocol.No wonder the real Polly went in hiding to Florida to live a little.
Another man arrives—a servant, I can tell by his white shirt and black pants uniform—carrying a large box. I’ve yet to meet the real butler. I hope he’s in a tux or at least a suit. I’m still hoping for the royal experience. The butler’s name should be Jeeves or Nigel, no, Edwin.
The servant dumps the contents of the box upside down onto the sand. It’s a large inflatable raft, all folded up. No air compressor, not even a manual pump.
We all stare at the raft.
The queen pipes up. “You’ll work together to inflate the raft, take it out to the inlet, and fish. The person who brings back the most fish wins. Please take a net and basket.”
The women slowly make their way to the nets and baskets. Not me. I head for the raft and unfold it, hoping there’s at least a manual pump tucked inside it. Nope. And I’m not so sure it can hold ten women either, even lightweights like these ladies. I get on my hands and knees and search the whole damn thing for a self-inflate trigger and, finding none, open up the valve and puff a few breaths into it. Barely a lift.
I look up from where I’m still kneeling on the sand to find Gabriel staring at me. I can feel it even through the aviator shades. “Is there an air pump somewhere?”
He gestures toward the queen.
I stand and ask the queen the same question, remembering to add Your Majesty. She bestows a smallMona Lisasmile on me, which is not an answer.
I head over to the nets and baskets, snagging the last one of each. Oh, great, my net is torn. The goal is the most fish, not the biggest, so I’d figured on catching a lot of little fish. Now they’ll fall right out of the net. I quickly knot the frayed sides together. The tear is fixed, but now my net is misshapen. What can you do? I wasted time on the raft, so I get last pickings.You snooze, you lose.
The queen lifts a hand. “We’ll return in two hours to choose a winner. That person will have a say in the next competition. Last place will go home on the next ferry.”
She leaves, security going with her; then Gabriel and the servant leave too.
Once they’re out of sight, we all look at each other.
“You,” a woman says imperiously, jabbing a long clear polished fingernail at me, “inflate the raft.”
I narrow my eyes. “It’s Polly, notyou, and I couldn’t inflate that thing if I wanted to. It’s huge. Look, they’re gone. All that matters is catching fish. We’ll just swim out, scoop some up, and come back to shore.”
“But they said we have to take the raft to the inlet,” someone whines.
“I can’t swim,” Marguerite says forlornly.
I blow out a breath of frustration. It seems like an impossible challenge. I look around at the dunes, the high rocky cliffs, searching for cameras. Is the real competition to see what happens in the face of the impossible? I don’t see any cameras. The queen is one sick son of a bitch.
“Hurry before the tide gets high,” a red-haired princess says. And then she rushes into the shallow waves, her net in the water.
The other women follow, jostling each other for space. A few get knocked down and come up sputtering. A fight breaks out, and my jaw drops, eyes wide. It’svicious. Lots of screaming, flying fists, and hair pulling.
Well, damn, it didn’t take long for the princesses to goLord of the Fliesout there. My lovely royal fantasy is shattered. I shake my head. Ya know, theonething I was looking forward to in this whole crazy situation was getting the royal experience. Now I know the truth. People are people, even if they’re born with a silver spoon in their mouth. It’s like I just found out Santa isn’t real. No magic left in the world.
I let out a long sigh. I guess I’ll just wait for them to stop splashing around so much, scaring the fish away. I’m willing to bet they give up soon.
~ ~ ~
Gabriel
Immediately following the presentation of the first challenge, I join my mother in the royal chambers, where my father lies bedridden. We’ve kept his health concerns quiet, but he’s past the point where medicine can help him. The TV screen mounted within view of his bed features a closed-circuit view of the women on the beach.
My father is smiling. “Well done, Alexandra. Fishing is the perfect challenge. Everyone should understand how life works around here.” Villroy has a long history of fishing dating back to the early Viking settlers. The original tribe of Vikings was known as the Wild Ones. I like that I’m descended from wild people. I may have squashed those rougher tendencies under royal decorum, but they’re there. I’m a warrior king born in the wrong century.
Those original Vikings sailed down from an early settlement on the Irish islands, bringing their Irish wives. Later, the British took over, then the French. A couple of centuries ago, the Rourke line was reestablished from the original Viking Irish roots. Under Rourke leadership, Villroy became a major seafood supplier. Now, with declining fish populations, it’s more work for less catch, and the fishermen are forced farther out to sea. The younger generation head over to mainland Europe for better opportunities. A population made up only of the older generation cannot survive as a kingdom for long. We need something to keep the younger generation here, offer them jobs and better opportunities than they could get elsewhere. This is what keeps me up at night.
My mother takes the chair next to my father’s bed, stroking his hand and murmuring, “I’m glad you like it.”
It hits me that she’s created her own reality TV show for his benefit. Another reminder that, while my parents began their marriage as strangers, their bond is now tight. Love can make you do strange things. Normally, my parents are the height of decorum and royal grace. My father’s illness has changed them both, knowing they don’t have much time left together.
I have to ask. “And how will this determine the best bride for me?”
