Bad Prince Charlie

by Moore, John

  “I’m surprised that you didn’t put me on a dragon. Or a unicorn.”

  The sculptor looked pained. “Those are so trite, General.”

  “And what’s this? A giant dolphin?”

  “An orca. You’re riding the back of a killer whale, holding a trident. Think about it, General. It would make a great fountain. I’d design it so that you’d be rising out of a foaming crest of water. Of course, some people might find the killer whale imagery too bloodthirsty.”

  “I’m surrounded by wolves in this next one. That’s not bloodthirsty?”

  “Wolves have an undeserved reputation. They’re actually intelligent creatures that care for their young and mate for life.”

  “Spare me. You do have some horse sketches, I presume.”

  Reluctantly the sculptor opened his portfolio case and extracted a second batch of sketches. He handed them to the general. “I just ask that you keep an open mind, sir.”

  “I think you’re anticipating here,” Fortescue said after glancing at the top sketch. “If the horse has one foot in the air, it signifies that the rider was injured in battle. If it has two feet in the air, the rider was killed in battle. I haven’t been killed yet, and all my injuries, thankfully, have been minor.”

  “That’s a popular myth,” said the sculptor. “A lot of people think there’s a code for equestrian statues, but there really isn’t. You can visit a historic battlefield and it may seem that way, but it’s just a coincidence. You can make the horse stand any way you want.”

  Fortescue looked at the sketches again. They were done in charcoal on vellum. He was careful not to smudge the dashing figure with his sword in the air and his hair blowing in the wind. “That horse is huge. I’ve never been on a horse that big. I’ve never even seen a horse that big. What breed of horse is that supposed to be?”

  “The artistic license breed. People want their heroes and their heroes’ horses to be larger than life. They’re so used to seeing statues with oversized horses that if I made the horse actual size, it would look like you were riding a pony. I’ve enlarged your muscles for the same reason.”

  “No, they look life-size.”

  “You’re right, they do,” said the sculptor hurriedly. “The statue will be a corrosion-resistant bronze alloy. The base will be locally quarried granite. The plaques will also be bronze.”

  “I’ve seen a few statues made from that new white bronze. Rather good-looking, I thought.”

  “You don’t want that stuff, sir,” the sculptor said definitely. “Too much zinc in it. Trust me. In a few years those statues will be dissolving in the rain.”

  Fortescue’s aide-de-camp slipped into the command tent and came to attention. “Excuse me,” Fortescue told the sculptor, handing back the sketches. He stepped outside, with the aide following behind him. His regimental commanders were waiting for him. The army was camped in a cup-shaped depression, surrounded by mountainous ridges. Trees lined the slopes. Tents, wagons, mules, men, horses, and small cooking fires filled the little valley. Even though Fortescue couldn’t see beyond the ridges, he looked in the direction of Damask. It was, he knew, only a half day’s march from there.

  He turned around and surveyed the valley. The soldiers were not yet ready to assemble, but fires were being put out, horses were being harnessed, and tents were being struck. Except for General Chomley’s regiment. Their tents would not be struck until the men changed into their parade uniforms. Chomley was looking grim. Fortescue chuckled. “Relax, gentlemen. Come inside and have a glass of port. We’re not marching off to battle. This is a parade. We’re being invited in. A mere show of force is all they will require.”

  “Yes, sir,” they all said, but Chomley added, “Unless we’re being crossed, sir.”

  “And that is why the other regiments are here. We have wagons full of food and the troops are there to guard the wagons and keep the supply lines open. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it. Everyone clear on that?” They nodded. “Good. Come inside and have a glass of port.” Chomley followed him back into the tent. The other commanders followed Chomley. The sculptor had just finished packing his sketches back into his portfolio. Fortescue put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know of the Prince Regent of Damask?”

  “Bad Prince Charlie? Yes, General.”

  “Work up some sketches of a statue for him. The boy is getting a raw deal. I think he deserves a little commemoration.”

  “No problem, sir. Standing, sitting, or equestrian?”

  “Oh, put him on a horse, I think. He’s a young man, I’m sure he’d like to be remembered that way. Two feet in the air.”

  “Two feet?” Chomley asked. “Are you expecting the prince regent to be killed in battle, sir?”

  “Not at all,” said Fortescue. “That’s just a coincidence.”

  “But . . .” said Catherine. “How—why—how did you—what?” A lesser woman might have fainted. Catherine Durace was not the fainting type. She thought fainting was only for women who wore their corsets too tight. Nonetheless, she felt, if she ever wanted to be the fainting type, now was the perfect opportunity.

  She was aware, as was everyone else at the castle, that the king’s ghost had appeared on the ramparts. She had seen Pollocks stabbed before her very eyes, had seen the bloodstain spread across his chest. And it was, after all, rather dim in that stairwell. So it was not unreasonable for her to conclude that a demon from Hell was leading her to her doom.

  And when the demon reached under his tunic and pulled out a dagger, her blood froze in her veins.

  “A stage dagger,” said Pollocks, handing it to her. “See, the blade retracts into the handle. His Highness got it from an acting company. It creates a very nice illusion of being stabbed, especially in dim light.”

  Catherine took the knife with shaking hands. It had a bit of a cutting edge down near the hilt, but the tip was blunt. She pressed it against her palm. An immense feeling of relief came over her as the blade slipped smoothly and quietly into the hilt. When she looked at it closely, she recognized it as the dagger that Charlie had been wearing in his belt.

  “We have to move quickly,” said Pollocks. “Come on.” He took her by the hand again and dragged her down the remaining stairs. At the bottom, he stopped to put the executioner’s hood back on. Then opened the door slowly, stuck his head out, and looked both ways.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the castle. It’s time for Charlie to leave the country, and you’re going with him. It’s not safe for you here.”

  “It’s not safe for me with Charlie! He wants to kill me!”

  “Not so. Packard and Gregory signed the order for your execution. They arranged it so Charlie would get the blame. The streets are empty now. Let’s run.”

  They dashed across the street and began making their way toward the castle, using the alleys in back of the buildings. “I’m still confused,” said Catherine. “Charlie got that dagger weeks ago. How long have you been planning this?”

  “We didn’t plan anything. We’re improvising. Charlie believes his uncles killed his father and he thought they might try to kill him, too. He got the dagger so he could fake his own suicide if his back was to the wall. Then, when he saw that Packard and Gregory were ready to torture me, he pretended to kill me. So he could get me out of the castle.”

  “Then you knew it was a fake dagger?”

  “Not until he stabbed me with it. Fortunately, I’ve had some theatrical experience. I was able to improvise. This way.” They broke away from the buildings and trotted around to the west side of the castle. Catherine had many more questions she wanted to ask, but the older man was slowing down and panting. She put her arm around him to steady him, until they reached the wall. He leaned against it, breathing hard.

  She looked around. The west wall did not have a gate. Oddly, a string of horses, saddled and bridled, had been tethered to a stake in the ground. “How do we get in?”

  Pollocks pointed upward.
Almost at the exact same time a rope ladder dropped down from the parapets. Catherine looked up. She couldn’t see anyone. “Where are all the guards?”

  “There’s just a minimum crew here now. The others are riding out with the prince regent to meet Gagnot for the duel. Now, up you go.”

  Catherine climbed the ladder with little trouble, musing that the day already had its share of ups and down and it was still early morning. At the top, slim hands grabbed her wrists and helped her over the wall. The hands belonged to Rosalind. She hugged Catherine tightly, while whispering, “I didn’t expect I’d have to help you break into the castle.”

  “You’ll still have to explain it to me. Let’s give Pollocks a hand.” They tried to pull up on the rope ladder, but even working together they lacked the upper body strength to lift the Faithful Family Retainer. He came up under his own power, lugged himself over the wall, and sprawled on the ground. “Oof. These wall are higher than they used to be.”

  “Too much wine and tobacco,” said Catherine reproachfully.

  “Please. I get enough of that from the prince.” Pollocks turned his head toward Rosalind. “What about the man who is supposed to be guarding Lady Durace’s cell?”

  “He’s still asleep. I gave him that sleeping draught at dinner last night. He won’t be up for hours.”

  “Good.” Pollocks climbed to his feet. “Follow me, ladies.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the south tower.” Pollocks took her hand and tugged her along the parapets. Catherine took Rosalind’s hand.

  “But that’s where I was being held before!”

  “That’s why no one will think to look for you there.”

  “And you’ll need to pack some clothes,” added Rosalind. They got to the tower without being seen and started making their way up the stairs.

  “Wait a minute!” said Catherine. “I just thought of something. Blood! Pollocks, when they carried you away, your chest was covered with blood. How could you do that with a fake dagger?”

  “It has a reservoir in the hilt. You fill it with tomato sauce. When the blade is pushed in, the red stuff spurts out.”

  Catherine took out the dagger and tested it with her finger. “No, it doesn’t”

  “I had linguine for dinner last night. I guess I forgot to refill it.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Acting out a death is not easy, despite what you may have been told,” Pollocks continued, leading them down the hallway. “A lot of people think that all you have to do is roll your eyes and fall over, but it takes more than that to be convincing. You must, essentially, be the dead person.” He reached the door to Catherine’s suite and opened it. “I had to ask myself, ‘What is my motivation for dying?’ ”

  “Your motivation was that you were stabbed,” said Charlie.

  “Charlie!”

  “Ignore him,” said Pollocks. “He has no appreciation for the craft.” The prince had Catherine’s smallest suitcase open on the bed. He rummaged through her wardrobe, grabbed a handful of clothes, and threw them on the bed next to the suitcase.

  “But, Charlie,” said Catherine, confused once again. “I don’t understand. If you’re here, then who is riding out to meet Gagnot?”

  Later, every one of the many spectators agreed that the duel started out splendidly.

  It was a beautiful day for it. The sun was bright, but it was still early enough that the temperature had not yet begun to climb. Because of the drought, the ground was baked hard, so there was neither mud nor large amounts of dust to contend with. A light, refreshing breeze rippled the banners. The crowd surrounding the square was large. Many had deserted their jobs at the various public works projects to see the spectacle. A large percentage of them had brought rather disconcerting tools—pitchforks and sickles and shovels and large hammers. Many were in uniform—newly minted soldiers from the various regiments raised by members of Damask’s nobility. They were armed with swords and spears. Far too many had, despite the still early hour, tankards of Durk’s in their hands. Alcohol and weapons—always a good combination.

  The bakers and pie makers stared ruefully at the crowd. Because of grain rationing, they had little to sell. They sighed collectively over the lost opportunity.

  The lower levels of the City Hall, which commanded the square, were filled with courtiers from the castle. The hall was surrounded by soldiers and bodyguards. Packard and Gregory each had a chair in front of a large casement window, which afforded an excellent view of the proceedings.

  It had begun much earlier with the meeting of the seconds, the reading of the Code Duellittante, the agreement to the field of battle, and the inspection of the weapons, followed by a break for morning tea. A band came out and played traditional battle tunes—“Whiskey in the Morning” and “Sally Juniper.” Everyone rose to sing the “Damask National Anthem,” which had the same melody and lyrics as the “Noile National Anthem” except the word “Damask” was substituted for “Noile.” (The budget had been tight in those days and funding for a good songwriter had been rejected.) Then the seconds left to rejoin their regiments and the crowd moved to the outside of the square and waited for the parade.

  Gagnot’s men rode toward the square from the south. They were a private regiment. Their armor was gleaming and spotless and made for show. Their helmets were plumed in bright colors. Their swords had elaborate hilts and even more elaborate scabbards. Their spirited horses had been meticulously groomed. The animals trotted briskly forward, enjoying the chance to parade. Their colors were bright silks that flapped briskly in the light breeze. Albemarle Gagnot rode at their head. He had his helmet off. Slung over his shoulder was a small canvas pouch on a thick leather cord. The crowd cheered for him as he rode past. He waved back. Behind him rode his seconds, preceded by the color-bearer, who carried a pennant with the Gagnot family crest.

  The Royal Guard rode toward the square from the north. Their armor was military issue, polished to a dull gleam, lacking the eye-catching brightness of their opponent’s armor, but sturdy and functional. Their swords had simple hilts of wrapped leather, and simple leather scabbards branded with the royal crest. Their mounts were stolid warhorses, who plodded steadily forward with the world-weary attitude of horses that had been around the block a few times and seen it all. Their leader was in black armor and kept his helmet on. Behind him rode the officers who would serve as seconds. The color-bearer carried the flag of Damask, and it was only because of this that the crowd did not boo the black rider. Though many hissed in low tones.

  Both factions of riders advanced to the edge of the square and stopped. The square surrounded a circular green, which was studded with cherry and flowering plum trees. Both species had suffered from the drought and looked decidedly bedraggled. Gagnot signaled with his hand for his men to stay in place and rode forward, stopping at the center of the green. He watched the black rider across the green, expecting him to ride forward also. Instead the rider stayed in place. Gagnot tried to hide his uncertainty. Did the prince regent expect Abe to come over to him? Was that the correct thing to do? Or would he be demeaning himself by seeming to submit to Charlie’s authority?

  The black rider remained motionless. Behind him, his seconds lifted up the helmets of their faceplates and looked at him. Gagnot could tell they were as uncertain as he was. A mutter of discontent rose from the crowd, who were by no means contented to begin with. Gagnot made a hasty decision: He would ride forward, but with his men. They outnumbered the Royal Guards. Crossing the square would allow them to show their force. He was about to raise his hand to call his men forward, when the black rider flipped his reins and began to move.

  Instead of riding forward, he turned to his left and rode around the square. He rode in front of the spectators, who glared at him resentfully, and he rode in front of Gagnot’s own troops, nodding curtly to them as though this was an inspection! Gagnot seethed. The black rider crossed the other side of the square, stopped to consider a sweetmeat st
and, apparently decided not to buy anything, and continued back to his starting point. Only then did he turn his horse onto the green and ride forward to meet Gagnot.

  He stopped with his horse next to Gagnot’s, so the two men were side by side. Gagnot glared at him. Two boys ran out, one from either side of the square, carrying the broadswords. Abe took his gilded and bejeweled scabbard and buckled it on. He waited while the black rider buckled on his own plain black scabbard, and while the two boys ran back to the street.

  “All right, Prince Charlie. No excuses this time, and no one to interfere with us. Your foul reign has come to an end.” He paused for dramatic effect. “This time we finish it.”

  The man inside the helmet made a snorting noise. Gagnot ignored it.

  “Your Royal Guards are outnumbered by even my own men, not withstanding the fact that the other lords, with their regiments, have also turned against you. The commoners will not support you. Even if you defeat me today you cannot maintain your position. But you will not defeat me. You know that you cannot match my skill in armored combat.

  “Nonetheless, Charlie, I am going to show you mercy.” Gagnot reached into the small canvas pouch and withdrew a scroll. “This is a letter of abdication. Sign it and I will guarantee you safe passage across the border. My men will escort you. You have my word.” He held the scroll out.

  “I say, Abe, you know what this reminds me of?” Oratorio said cheerfully. He lifted up the visor to his helmet. “My initiation into the frat. They made us all dress up in girlie underthings, don’t you know, and . . .”

  Gagnot’s howl of anger could be heard clear back to the castle.

  “Shush,” said Charlie. Everyone stood still while he listened. A faint roar could be heard from the city. “That’s it then. The revolution has started. Gagnot will seize the castle. Fortescue will be here tonight. We’ve got to get you out of the country.” He yanked open a chest of drawers and started pulling out clothes.

  “Charlie! Stop!”