The archbishop chuckled, though Stephen failed to see the merriment, and considered his tea, taking a hearty sip. The old man broke off a corner of his scone, closing his eyes,hmmmminghis enjoyment, spiking Stephen’s irritation.
He should just leave. This was an ill-planned quest.
“What do you want from me?” the archbishop finally said. “You seem set on your answers.”
Stephen regarded him. “I–I . . .” What did he want by coming here? “I thought I wanted to know why you married us.” Stephen picked at the upholstery threads, feeling his heart and foolishness exposed. “But now I don’t know.”
“If you could go back, do it all over again, would you? Marriage, deployment, serving with those particular men?”
“I–I don’t know.”
“What might you do different? Not marry her? Perhaps serve with different men? Make different choices?”
“No, I’d probably be foolhardy enough to marry her.”Face it, you love her!“And the boys in our crew were the best in the entire squadron. It was an honor to serve with them. But yes, there are a few different actions I’d take.”
“In hindsight.”
“In hindsight.”
“My dear prince, you need a new perspective.” The archbishop struggled out of his chair to join Stephen on the couch. “Your worth is not determined by who you are or what you do, even what youdon’tdo. It’s determined by the work of your Savior. If our Lord bore the cross to declare you worthy, then indeed you are, and nothing—not war, nor death, regrets, injury, broken hearts, or tabloid headlines—can change it. Only if you choose not to accept it.”
“I confess I’m not a religious man, archbishop.”
“Then can you be a believing man? One of faith in God? Let him forgive you so you can forgive yourself. Let this matter go to him. Otherwise, your mates indeed died in vain if you confine yourself to a life of regret, bearing a burden that doesn’t seem like yours to bear. And not forgiving yourself for it.” He spoke in an even, calm tone, sorting through Stephen’s emotions with the fine edge of his wisdom. “In the end, you die with them, but only after years of a slow, withering kind of death, fulfilling your own prophecy. They died in vain. That banged-up ankle you sport will seem a welcome respite when it’s all said and done.”
His words melded with a heavy, oily presence in the room, creating a spicy-sweet fragrance that washed over Stephen. When he closed his eyes, he felt as if he were floating.
“What choice will you make? Your Highness, you cannot undo the past. But you can blanket it in the Lord’s blood, not that of your mates, and the Son of God will heal you and ensure your future days.”
The declaration rattled him. Disquieted his self-righteousness. He felt the rumble and shift in his chest. He’d believed in God most of his thirty-one years. But after Torkham, doubt and confusion shattered his small faith. “What do you want from me?” His spirit churned, addressing the question more to the One who hovered in the room than the archbishop sitting next to him.
“He wants everything, Your Highness. I’d say he earned it. If you could meet with your mates, somehow in the beyond, wouldn’t you give them everything for dying for you?”
“My royal scepter. My crown, my title, my money . . . yes, my everything.”
“The Christ will do the same for you. Ifyougivehimyour everything. Come to the cross.” The archbishop’s voice seemed to stir the oil in the room.
Stephen remained planted, shaking so violently on the inside, his hands and legs trembled. He gripped his knees, trying to control the waves coursing through him, but he could not.
“Best give in, lad. The Lord has come for you, and I dare believe he’s not leaving until he has your surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
“To him, to his cross, to his love and the fact that you, my boy, were worth dying for.”
Worth dying for . . .
The phrase crushed him so intensely, Stephen slid off the sofa, unable to command his muscles, and hit the floor on his knees, weeping, the heel of his hand pressed into his eyes. Humiliating, undignified . . . But he could not stop it.
His chest expanded with each sob, filling with the reality of his own weaknesses and sin. Sin he’d never contemplated, actions and thoughts he’d once delighted in ground him down, further into the unseen presence in the room.
“Lord, forgive him.” The archbishop’s soft prayer demolished Stephen’s last wall.
A wail exploded from his chest, a sound he’d never heard. “Lord, they died for me. An unworthy man.” He sucked in a sharp, shallow breath, unable to fill his lungs. “Lord—” The name smoothed over his tongue, and from his lips he confessed. “Jesus, you are Lord and died for me. Forgive me. Let me forgive myself. Please, remember Bird and Carlos, the lads who died. Asif . . . remember Asif. And Corina, my Corina.” The words continued to flow as he lowered his chest to the floor, prostrating himself, and letting every hidden thing come to the light.
And moment by moment, Stephen Stratton, Prince of Brighton, became the man he’d always longed to be.
TWENTY-EIGHT
