Funeral
Flicka von Hannover
Monaco wept.
Flicka walked down theRue Colonel Bellando de Castrostreet in the cool Mediterranean sunshine, wearing a long-sleeved black coat over her matching dress. The breeze picked at the long, black veil she wore over her hair, blowing the gossamer fabric against Pierre’s arm as he walked beside her. He wore a black morning coat andvest over dark gray pants and no honors, no sashes or medals, just one signet ring on his right hand.
Ahead of them, eight priests wearing violet vestments over their black robes acted as pallbearers and carried the casket bearing Prince Rainier IV on their shoulders. The red and white flag of Monaco fluttered over the casket, though it was sturdily pinned to the enameled box.
As they left thePrince’s Palace, they passed the statue of Pierre’s ancestor François Grimaldi, dressed as a monk and wielding a long knife, a reminder that the Grimaldi took the fortress by treachery and not in noble conquest.
On the rooftop of the Prince’s Palace, uniformed army soldiers were bolting new weapons to the fortress’s walls.
As it was just before noon, the sun was directly overhead. Its harshrays shone down, heating her scalp through the veil she wore over her hair. The tall, antique buildings crowding the avenue threw no shadows. Flicka looked up from where they walked on the street winding through the bottom of the canyon of buildings.
People crowded the balconies and curbs. All six thousand Monegasque citizens had walked through the tiny streets of Monaco and climbed the headlandsto the medieval city of Monaco Ville for the funeral.
Their wails filled the air, lamentations and choked sobs.
Flowers—bouquets and memorial wreaths and flowers cut from gardens—lined the sidewalks and street, an overwhelming display of grief. Their sickly-sweet scent overpowered even the scent of the Mediterranean Sea, crashing against the cliff face far below where she walked.
Pierre’s cousinsof several degrees and dozens of royalty from all over the world walked behind Flicka and Pierre as they plodded through the streets of the old city of Monaco Ville. Many royals had already been in and around Monaco, soaking up the sun and anticipating the Prince’s Winter Ball to be held in a few days. Rainier IV’s death had been at a convenient time for them, and so his funeral was well-attended.Everyone traveled with an all-black ensemble, anyway, just in case.
The route from the Prince’s Palace to the Cathedral of Monaco—the church also known as theCathédrale Notre-Dame-Immaculéeand the Saint Nicholas Cathedral—would only take about five minutes to walk, even at this somber pace. Red brick sidewalks bordered the black asphalt, one of the few streets where cars could normally drivein the Old City. Beyond the grove of trees that bordered the sidewalk, a stone wall saved wanderers from plunging hundreds of feet down the sheer cliff face to the sapphire Mediterranean Sea and yacht slips below.
On the side streets, the crowd behind the barricades sobbed as the funeral procession passed, and it seemed to Flicka that all of Monaco screamed with pain the whole time they walkedwith Rainer’s casket, a constant, unwavering cry of loss for what felt like hours. Prince Rainier IV had been very popular, increasing everything about his country: its status, its services to its citizens, its wealth base, and through land reclamation projects, its very size. Monaco Ville mourned for the elderly prince who had led them into the twenty-first century so well.
Never mind that Flickasuspected Rainier had tried to have her killed at her wedding to Pierre. When that shot rang out across Paris, when Dieter had shoved her to the ground and shielded her with his own body, when the bullet had punched into his flesh instead of hers,someonehad ordered it.
It made no sense to her that Rainier would do such a thing. On paper, Flicka was the perfect princess for Monaco. Rainier musthave supported the match or else Pierre wouldn’t have pursued her so diligently for over a year, and then they had been engaged for another year to plan the wedding. She didn’t understand, and now she might never know for sure.
The funeral procession walked slowly through the bright, screaming streets of Monaco.
There was one notable absence in the parade of black-clad people trailing the flag-drapedcoffin: Prince Maxence Grimaldi, second in line for the throne after his older brother Pierre. The palace admins had fluttered around for days—calling, emailing, texting, PMing, DMing, and telegraphing, but no one had managed to contact him. Someone had suggested a carrier pigeon, but no one knew how to send one. None of them were sure that Max even knew Rainier had died, let alone whenthe funeral was.
Flicka was surprised to see Pierre’s cousin and third in line for the throne, Alexandre Grimaldi, was in attendance. His blond hair was bound at the nape of his neck in a ponytail, and in that black, conservative suit, he looked less like a rock star than she had ever seen him.
His wife and one of Flicka’s oldest friends, Georgiana Johnson, walked with him. Georgie was thinnerthan Flicka remembered, and Georgie kept watching Flicka, trying to catch her eye. Georgie even tried to dart through the crowd toward her at one point, but one of Pierre’s Secret Service men discreetly stepped between the two of them and ushered Georgie back to her place in the cortege.
On Alexandre’s other side walked his sister Christine Grimaldi, wearing a high-necked black dress and veil.Red rimmed her eyes, and the Secret Service thwarted her attempts to push through their line to Flicka, too.
Alina had stayed in their suite at the palace with nannies who were doubtlessly plying her with cookies to come out from under the bed in her new bedroom. Flicka had lain flat on the floor before she left, holding Alina’s small hand where she was cowering under the bed, and explained thatshe had to go and would be back. She’d told Alina to come out if she could, but to hold on, to endure, because Flicka would come back to her.
Flicka endured the funeral procession and prayed for Raphael to rescue her.
She believed Raphael still lived. She clung to that belief.
The procession passed Monaco’s small courthouse where weeks ago, Flicka’s divorce from Pierre had been declared invalid,trapping her in this sham of a marriage. At the sharp corner, two staircases curved and met at a small balcony above.
Across the intersection from the courthouse lay the Cathedral of Monaco, where Pierre’s grandfather, Rainier the Third, had married the American movie star, Grace Kelly.
In the crypt within the church, Pierre’s aunt had already lain in her grave for twenty years, waiting forher husband to finally join her.
Wide, white steps curved around the cathedral’s entrance. Flicka delicately climbed the stairs to enter the church for the funeral.
Pierre’s security men stood on the steps, watching the procession and the crowd behind the barricades on the side streets.
One of the Secret Service agents was watching Flicka instead of surveying the crowd.
