This time, things would be different.
Maxence was given a few moments alone to pray at Saint Jean Baptiste’s chapel, a small church within the palace’s walls on the far end of the Court of Honor, before the enthronement ceremony began.
This, at least, was traditional.
Silence hovered in the air of the small church, pressing on him from all sides.
Maxence prayed in the chapel, unfurling his arms out from his sides as the crucifix loomed above him, silent.
Each breath was one of his last before he accepted the throne and entered history. He wasn’t resentful or opposed to becoming the sovereign prince, but he was mindful of what he was accepting that day.
His watch chimed, indicating that the Monegasque nobles had made their grand entrances and taken their seats at the front.
Maxence emerged from the chapel on the side of the palace’s inner courtyard at precisely seven-thirty. The sunset slashed the sky above, but the castle walls darkly shadowed the area inside.
Spotlights centered on Max.
Trumpets played a fanfare.
Oh, it would get better from there. Max had conferred with theatre artists, and together, they’d written a proper pageant.
When Queen Elizabeth had crowned her son Charles as the Prince of Wales, she’d created an entire ritual that had never existed before entirely for the publicity and amusement of the people of Great Britain. Why shouldn’t Maxence update the current enthronement rite and make a spectacle of it for his country?
That was essentially his job now, to make a spectacle of himself for his country.
That, and to moderate the prices of olive oil and sea bass, of course.
Maxence walked the long red carpet to the center of the courtyard alone. As it was after six in the evening and these proceedings were a royal and state event, attire for the evening had been designated as court dress, which meant white tie with decorations, the highest level of formality possible. As such, Maxence wore a white tie and tailed tuxedo because he’d chosen not to go with a pseudo-military uniform.
Someone with eventual plans to burn down Monaco’s monarchy and install a democracy, or at least a constitutional principality, shouldn’t dress like a military dictator at the first chance possible.
Maxence also wore every one of the few royal orders he’d been accorded over the years as the spare heir in waiting. A dark olive ribbon with a narrow red stripe wove under his collar and white tie, holding the silver and gold fillagree cross of the Commander in the Order of the Crown, a third-degree rank of a second-class organization. He also sported a row of miniature medals on the left breast of his jacket like a military “salad” block. A new one for the Order of St. George of the Kingdom of Hannover had arrived a week ago by courier with a note promising his reception into the order the next time Maxence was at Schloss Southwestern.
Spotlights bearing down on his head warmed his scalp as he walked through the cool evening air toward the dais erected at the base of the two grand staircases curving from the ground up to the loggia on the second floor of the palace.
Camera flashes sparkled out of the silent crowd, twinkling at the edges of his vision, but he kept his eyes on the shining throne which had been hauled out of the throne room and placed under a blaze of theatrical lighting for the ceremony.
An orchestra seated behind the staircase on the right played classical music as he walked, as solemn as his expression. This formal investiture would emphasize the gravity of the passing of the throne to the next generation, while the evening’s festivities and tomorrow’s national picnic would celebrate renewal.
As he reached the dais, two men were waiting for him at the base of the stairs.
His cousin Alexandre wore his blond hair tied back in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck. Refusing to cut it for even this ceremony was perhaps his best act of rebellion. He also wore a white tie tuxedo, though his red and white sash ran diagonally across his chest under his black jacket, pinned with a badge on his right hip, and a silver and green star was pinned on the left side of his tailed tuxedo jacket. Those diamond-encrusted decorations were the emblem of a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St. Charles, the highest rank of the most elite order Monaco awarded. His smirk suggested he knew Maxence was glaring at it.
The other man was a white guy who was mostly bald, a little portly, and shorter than Alexandre, as most people were. Prince Albert, Maxence’s final uncle, was the youngest son of Max’s grandfather Prince Rainier III and had been sixth in line for the throne only a few months ago. After Pierre had committed suicide in December and Prince Jules and Marie-Therese were in jail and awaiting trial, Albert had suddenly leapfrogged to the number three position after Alexandre. After Maxence’s investiture and thus his removal from the line of succession, Albert would rise to second in line. He still looked vaguely stunned about it.
When Max reached the two men, they bowed slightly from the waist, and the three of them continued to the throne area together.
At the dais, Maxence stepped up the short risers carefully because tripping and falling on his face, perhaps breaking his neck, might be seen as evidence of his lack of divine right of kings.
Waiting for him at the top of the dais and standing beside the throne was Maxence’s old friend from seminary, a slight, bookish-looking nerd. The white, heavily embroidered papal vestments swaddling his thin frame seemed to be wearing him, but he smiled as Maxence climbed the stairs.
As always, Maxence knelt and kissed Pope Vincent’s casually offered papal ring. While he was kneeling, the pope said a quick blessing and anointed Maxence’s forehead with a cross of holy oil.
After Maxence stood, the theatrical lighting suspended on cables above the curved double staircase and blasting from arrays on tall poles blinded him, but his eyes adjusted after a moment. He faced the audience for the first time and attempted to appear to be regally surveying his subjects, but he was really looking for Dree Clark.
Dree was over to the left, wearing a dark red, strapless gown belted at the waist with a white sash. She sat beside Alexandre’s wife, Georgie, in the royal box set aside for the Duchy of Valentinois. Dree was smiling at him, not grinning like a loon, but a knowing, secret smile that he picked out of the hundreds of faces in the palace courtyard.
Thebonnes soeursNdaya and Disanka sat with them after meeting Pope Vincent earlier, and they were the very definition of dignified grace that evening.
