Bad Prince Charlie

by Moore, John

  “I can. I’ll bring up a couple of workmen to take the door off.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sire. He not only locked it, he warded it with protective spells. We can’t get past them.”

  The prince glared at all three of them. “Knock it off. I’m in no mood for nonsense. I’ve never met an apprentice yet who couldn’t get into his master’s cupboards, and I find it hard to believe that a sorcerer’s apprentice is any different.”

  Jeremy’s face grew stern. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. It’s out of the question. The agency would fire me if they found out I’d removed a master sorcerer’s protective ward. I’d never get another job if that happened. And it doesn’t matter because I can’t do it anyway.”

  “Nor us,” said Evelyn. “We’d get kicked out of school for sure. But neither of us knows enough magic to undo a protective ward. Right, Tweezy?”

  “Um,” said the younger girl.

  The other three stared at her in silence, until Evelyn said, “What? You mean to tell me you got into Thessalonius’s study?”

  Charlie couldn’t see Tweezy’s face. He could only hear the hesitant mumble that came from behind a mass of blond curls. “Um, maybe. Only once. I didn’t touch anything. It was an accident!” she finished defiantly.

  “You removed a protective ward by accident?”

  “It could happen!”

  “Right,” said Charlie. He put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and gently propelled her in the direction of the chief sorcerer’s private rooms. “Have another go at it, Tweezy. If you get it open again, send word to me immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.

  It was evening by the time the prince returned to the throne room. On his first day of rule, the halls outside had been crowded with courtiers, solicitors, ministers, and consuls. After a few days of throwing corrupt officials into the slammer, the halls were now eerily empty. Those officials he did pass tended not to meet his eyes and walked away quickly. Oratorio, on the other hand, was waiting for him. Charlie stopped and gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s about the ghost,” Oratorio started.

  “I’m not interested, Oratorio.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Your Highness, but it’s scaring the hell out of the men. You really have to see it yourself to understand the effect it has, all floating and eerie and sepulchral. If you could just hear what it has to say, I think there’s a good chance it would go away and then we could all get back to normal.”

  “Did it talk to you?”

  “Yes, Sire. And I took down the message, as you requested.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Oratorio took a twist of paper from his breast pocket, but the prince said, “Just tell it to me, Oratorio. I’m sure you remember it.”

  “Yes, Sire. Um.” The knight paused to clear his throat.

  “Come on, out with it.”

  “Very well, Sire. The ghost said, ‘Tell that little bastard if he doesn’t get his royal rump out on the ramparts tonight and hear me out, I’m going to give him a haunting he’ll never forget.’ ”

  “Huh. Well, I have to admit, that does sound like Dad.”

  “Yes, Sire. He seems to have caught the king’s turn of phrase quite nicely.”

  “Too bad I’ve got other plans for tonight. If he appears, tell him he’s penciled in for tomorrow.”

  Oratorio, looking unhappy, nodded. Charlie left the throne room and went back to his suite. Pollocks was there. Pollocks was always around, it seemed. He had brought a thick roll of diagrams into the small office. Now they were spread over the desk. Charlie joined him. “Are those the public works programs?”

  “Yes, Sire. I brought everything I could find out of the files.”

  “Good. We’ll need something to keep them employed when the crops fail.”

  “Here’s one for a new opera house.”

  “No. I can tell right away that we can’t afford it now. We’ll be buying food with every penny in the treasury.”

  “Here’s something about adding some new parks.”

  “Too easy. Won’t employ enough people.”

  “We’ve got a few other civic improvements that don’t amount to much. And then there’s this.” Pollocks showed him a mass of construction drawings. “I can’t make out what this is all about.”

  Charlie studied them. “Sunken roads?”

  “If you say so, Sire.”

  “That’s gotta’ be it. But why would we want a grid of roads going through mostly farmland? Look how extensive this is.”

  “I couldn’t say, Sire.”

  Charlie studied them some more. “Cheap to build, though. Just scrape the dirt down to bedrock, which in our case is usually only eight inches below the surface, and bank the dirt along the side. No material cost, but labor intensive, which is what we need. The only equipment is shovels, and it will keep a lot of men busy. Okay, we’ll do it.”

  “Do we need these roads, Sire?”

  “We need a public works project and this is fully engineered and ready to go.” Charlie rolled up the drawings and handed them to Pollocks. “Bring them to the Interior Minister and tell him to get ready. People will be coming in from their farms once their gardens start drying up.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Tell him to keep track of the level in the city wells. Institute water rationing when they get to forty percent of normal.”

  “People won’t like that, Sire.”

  “They don’t have to like it.” Charlie left the office and went into the dressing room. He opened a closet, looked inside with surprise, opened another closet, and looked in that one with puzzlement. He pulled a bell rope that summoned his valet. The man appeared quickly—he must have been already on his way—bearing a tray loaded with hot towels, a basin of water, a bowl of shaving soap, and a razor. Charlie pointed to the closet. “What happened to my clothes?”

  “I put them away, Sire. On order from your uncles. They took the liberty of supplying you with a brand-new wardrobe.”

  “Everything is black!”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Even the underwear is black.”

  “Yes, Sire, but it is silk underwear. Your uncles said that black clothing suited you. Would you like me to shave you now, Sire?”

  “Yes, fine . . . no!” Charlie took the tray from his hands. “Ah, no. No, I’ll shave myself. Thanks anyway.” His valet bowed out. Charlie dressed with particular care, noting that, except for the monochromatic color scheme, his uncles had somehow found a tailor that was familiar with his size and taste. He carefully aligned the ruffles of his collar and laced up his breeches so the waistband lay flat against his trim stomach. Looking in the glass, he combed his hair several different ways before deciding on his usual left-side part. A few strokes with a towel brought a final luster to his already gleaming boots. He started to comb his hair again, but told himself he was only stalling, and put the comb away.

  From another cabinet he took a silver wrapped box, opened it and inspected it. It held some of the finest chocolates that could be obtained in Damask. He replaced the lid, put the box under his arm, and picked up a dozen carefully wrapped roses. Deciding he was as ready as he was ever going to be, he made his way to the south tower.

  Catherine was allowed to receive visitors—had been receiving a steady stream, in fact—but tonight, Charlie had instructed the guards to turn everyone else away. He hesitated before knocking, wondering if it would be more in character to simply barge in. He decided that even a bad prince could be polite. He knocked twice. Hearing no answer, he turned the handle and let himself in. He was not prepared for what he saw.

  He was prepared to see Catherine, of course, and he did see her, although even that sight exceeded his highest expectation. She stood on the other side of the room, bathed in soft candlelight from a dozen strategically placed tapers. Her long red hair was artfully disarrayed, falling down to her shoulder and beyond, partially covering her face and concealing one eye.
Her perfect figure was clad only in a long silk gown of sea-foam green. It had no sleeves or straps. It simply clung loosely to her breasts, seemingly without support, and rippled down to the shadows between her thighs, the translucent material hinting at the lush pleasure beneath its folds, without actually revealing anything. The gown was slit along one side, allowing Charlie’s eyes to follow one slim, creamy thigh down to her high-heeled slipper. Her hands, splayed out against the opposite wall, boasted nails of deep red, and the same glossy red coated her rich, full lips. Lady Catherine Durace presented a sight that most men could only dream about. She was more beautiful—far more beautiful—than Charlie had ever dared hope, but he quickly upgraded his hopes to deal with that.

  He was not, however, prepared to see a woman who seemed scared to death.

  She was pressing herself against the far wall as though hoping to disappear into it. Her lower lip was trembling, and her uncovered eye was casting about as if searching for a means of escape. She was breathing stertorously, her breasts rising and falling in a way that kept drawing Charlie’s attention even when he knew he should be looking at her face. They both stared at each other, silent, unmoving, until Charlie felt constrained to break the ice.

  “So,” he started cheerfully. “How do you like these rooms? Pretty nice, eh?”

  Catherine brushed the hair off her face in one jerky, spasmodic movement. She fixed her eyes on him. She said nothing.

  “I brought you some flowers.” Charlie held them up. “And some chocolates.” He gestured with the box.

  Catherine continued to say nothing.

  “They’re really good chocolates,” said Charlie.

  No response.

  “Well, I’ll just put them on the table here.” He laid the bouquet and the box on a table in front of him, between two candles. Catherine backed away as he approached, slithering along the wall.

  “What do you want?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Um. I just dropped by to say hello and see how you were getting along. So the rooms are okay, huh? How about the food? Everything fine there? You don’t have to answer, just nod your head. Maybe we could talk for a little while. We haven’t seen that much of each other. This might be a good time to get reacquainted. How have you been? Your hair looks nice.”

  Catherine slid against the wall until she reached the side of the bed. It was a large, sleigh-style bed, with a great curve of varnished mahogany for the headboard and a smaller piece for the foot. The white silk sheets gleamed like a snowdrift under a winter moon. “Don’t toy with me, Your Highness.” She suddenly threw herself backward, sinking into the down mattress. Pillows bounced around and over her, hiding her from view until Charlie moved closer. She was lying spread-eagle, with her eyes screwed shut and her hands clenched into tight fists. “Go ahead,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Do what you came to do. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Excuse me,” said Charlie. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, nodded to the guard, and walked swiftly down the inside stairs until he was out of the south tower, where he then crossed over to the west wing of the castle. Both of his uncles had a suite on the floor below the king’s rooms, across the hall from each other. Charlie took a long look at each door, taking deep breaths and counting to ten to control his temper. He gave up at seven.

  “Get out here,” he yelled, pounding on one door. He crossed the hall and hammered on the second one. “Get out here right now!”

  The door behind him opened. Packard and Gregory came out of the same room, where they had been smoking and drinking port. “Charlie? What’s wrong, my boy?”

  Charlie pointed upward. “You told me she was in on the game!”

  “You’re speaking of Catherine?”

  “Yes, Catherine! She thinks she’s really a prisoner.”

  “No, no she doesn’t. Charlie, she was fully briefed on the whole plan, right from the beginning. She knows everything you know. We went up to give her a progress report ourselves, just this morning.”

  “Well, there must be some miscommunication because I just went to see her and she’s scared to death of me. She thinks I’m going to rape her.”

  “Ah.” Gregory and Packard exchanged smiles. “Don’t worry about it, Charlie. It’s an act. It’s all part of the plan to make you look bad.”

  “Why would she put on an act when there’s no one in there but the two of us?”

  “I expect she wants to stay in character,” said Packard.

  “Exactly,” said Gregory. “Also, lots of girls have some sort of fantasy about being taken by a handsome and forceful young man. They want to be carried up the stairs two at a time, flung onto the bed, their bodices ripped. That sort of thing.”

  “Don’t tear the bodice for real,” said Packard. “That will get her upset. Those things can be expensive. Loosen the stays and gently tug it open. Just have a tough expression when you do it.”

  “Are you telling me I’m supposed to rape Catherine as part of the plan?”

  “Not rape, ravish. Ravish is the word they use.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, legally there’s no difference. But in those novels they read, they always say that the hero ravished the girl.”

  Charlie put an arm up against the wall, then rested his head on the arm. “Rape or ravish, I’m not comfortable with taking a woman by force. This wasn’t what I had in mind for us.”

  “Charlie, you’re not doing either one,” Packard said patiently. “It’s a bit of performance art, to make the rest of Damask think you’re mistreating her. She’s just carrying it a little too far.”

  “You’re a man of the world, Charlie,” said Gregory. “You know what women are like.”

  “No,” said Charlie. “Actually I don’t.”

  “Oh, come now.” Gregory winked at him. “You’ve been two years at the University of Bitburgen. We know they accept women now. We know what college students are like. We’ve all heard stories about the parties and the scandalous behavior of coeds. You’re a good-looking young man of independent means. I’m sure you had your share of flings.”

  “Of course not,” snapped Charlie. “I was an engineering major.”

  There was a long period of embarrassed silence. “I . . . I’m sorry, Charlie,” said Gregory finally. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t know.”

  “Catherine won’t know, either,” said Packard buoyantly, clapping Charlie on the shoulder. “Off you go, my boy. She’s waiting for you and no doubt wondering what’s taking you so long.”

  “Just follow your instincts,” said Gregory. “And if she says anything about school, tell her you changed majors.”

  There were a lot of stairs between his uncles’ quarters and Catherine’s suite in the prison tower, but Charlie took them without much notice, lost in a mental haze. He navigated the turns on instinct, for his vision was turned inward, focused on a mental picture of Catherine, sprawled across the bed in her silk nightgown. Charlie knew there were many things in life that were more important than getting laid, but right now it was hard to imagine what they could be.

  The reverie was broken by the guard. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I tried to stop them, but there were too many of them. They just kept coming, from all over.”

  “Who?” said Charlie, but he found out as soon as he turned the corner. It appeared that every woman in the castle, from the noblest ladies to the newest chambermaids, was gathered in the hall leading to Catherine’s rooms. They stood aside to let Charlie pass, but they gave him uniformly dark and dirty looks, contempt and revulsion plainly shown on every face, and Charlie could hear the whispers behind him as he passed. “Beast!” “Animal!” “How could he do that to her?” For the second time that evening, he knocked on Catherine’s door.

  This time she answered it. The picture she presented was quite different from what he had seen half an hour before. Her eyes were puffy from crying and her makeup was streaked with tears. The nightgo
wn, he noticed, seemed to have been torn in a rather lewd way. He leaned forward. “Catherine? Are you okay?”

  She shut the door in his face.

  The whispering behind him grew louder. Charlie turned around. It stopped instantly, but he was washed by an almost physical wave of hostility, emanating from Catherine’s supporters. As one woman, they folded their arms and glared at him.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” muttered Charlie, and went out onto the ramparts.

  The ghost drifted across the parapets. There was a chill wind blowing over the stonework, but the ghost didn’t feel it. Since his death he had constantly felt cold anyway. He didn’t like being dead. One day alive, breathing, drinking, surrounded by toadies, bootlickers, yes-men, and groveling sycophants, as a leader should be. Ruling a small kingdom, but one that had potential. Suddenly he was cold all the time, he felt like he couldn’t breathe (he couldn’t, of course, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling), and it was lonely up here on the walls. Twice he had managed to sink down inside the castle for a few minutes. There he had seen himself in a mirror, and it was a depressing sight. He hated himself in white. It made him look fat.

  His only consolation was that he had fallen asleep on his final night with a bottle in his arms. At least he had that with him. He took a drink now, and blew on his hands to warm them. It didn’t have the slightest effect.

  A voice behind him said, “Whither thou, Ghost?”

  The ghost jumped a foot in the air.

  “Dammit, Charlie,” he said irritably. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. You’re the one who’s drifting around silent and translucent.”

  “Well, you’re hard to see. What’s with the black clothes? No, let me guess. You’ve decided to become a ninja, right?”

  The prince looked down at his clothes and gave a small, resigned shrug. “Yes. Exactly right. Dad, it’s cold, it’s dark, it’s night, I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired. Let’s get this over with. You called me out here to tell me something, and I suspect it was not to comment on my sartorial habits. Come on, out with it.”