Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  He felt the blood dripping from his face and regarded the tears in his shirt and the bloody stripes on his arms and body. He wanted to stop and tend them, but the sun was now sitting just atop the mountains. He still had to make it down the cliff. Will checked to be sure the Princess had made it through unharmed, then, wincing, he picked the girl up again and began the painfully slow trip down the treacherous path.

  In the failing light of evening, he at last reached the road. Under the horse’s baleful gaze, he hastily swept aside an assortment of half-­filled pickle jars, layered the back of the cart with all but one of his sister’s blankets, and delicately set the Princess atop them, and used the last to cover her. Exhausted, he eyed the thickly padded bed, dismissed the idea as improper, and crawled beneath the wagon.

  The next morning found him studying the sleeping princess over the edge of the cart’s side wall. She still slept, but at some point in the night she had shifted, if ever so slightly. Encouraged by this new sign of life, he gave Grey a pat on the nose. “Let’s get back home, otherwise we’ll have Liz up here after us.”

  The trip back to the farm was as uneventful as the journey up. During the day, he told stories and sang songs to his sleeping passenger as they meandered down the sun-­dappled road to the valley below. The Princess slept the whole way, but otherwise everything went according to plan; and on the afternoon of the seventh day of his journey, William Pickett rode into the valley that held his family’s farm. But as he came into sight of his burnt field, Will knew that something had gone terribly wrong. The mound, so painstakingly built in the middle of the field, had been partially excavated and a flock of ravens fluttered here and there feasting on the exposed flesh of the dead dragon. He flicked the reins and made for the barn at a trot. Liz emerged at the sound of his approach, stared hard at the wagon for a heartbeat, then raced across the dusty yard toward them, kicking up the hem of her skirts as she ran. Will pulled Grey to a stop as she leapt onto the sideboard of the cart and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Will! You made it, you are back!”

  He returned her embrace for a moment, then pulled away. “Liz what’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  She reached her hand up to touch one of the scratches that ran across his cheek. “Will, what happened to you? Are you all right? Are you hurt badly? Was it a bear . . . or a troll?”

  He pulled her hand away from his face. “I’m fine. Liz, what happened to the dragon?”

  Her face paled. “It was that trollop, Gretel,” she said, adding unnecessarily, “your cow of a girlfriend. She came down with her folks the day after you left and started asking me about you. I sent them off, but her father was looking at the mound and I could see he was suspicious, and . . . and then . . . well . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at where the dragon’s body lay and sighed. “They came back two nights ago—­about a dozen of them—­everyone of importance in the village, I think. I tried to stop them, but they dug it up . . . they . . .”

  He’d never seen her at a loss for words like this. He turned to look at the dragon’s grave again. Something was wrong. No, something was missing. “What did they do, Liz?”

  Her voice shook with anger, “Oh, it’s awful! They took its head, Will. They’ve put it up on the town green. They sent for the King’s man to discuss reparations, a reward for having slain the beast.”

  The youngest Pickett had always been slow to anger, but now his rage boiled over. Those bastards think they can steal this from us! He pulled his sister onto the seat beside him and, with a flick of the reins, turned Grey onto the road that led to town. The old horse champed at the bit and shook her head in protest, but he drove her on—­hard. When they reached the center of town, it was at a full gallop. He reined Grey viciously to a stop, white foam blowing from the old horse’s mouth and sweat slicked across her back.

  There on the green, in front of the church, a tall pole, really the lower twenty feet of a denuded tree, had been firmly planted into the ground. Mounted atop was the severed blackened head of the dragon—­empty eyes staring lifelessly out over the village square like a grotesque maypole. Around the base of this macabre monument, a group of children played and chanted an old nursery rhyme. Without a word, Will grabbed his ax from the back of the cart and stormed toward the dragon’s head. The children scattered like leaves blown by a high wind, their screams echoing across the village. Will ignored them and began chopping at the base of the pole.

  The shouting children and sharp sound of the axe in the still afternoon drew the towns­people from the buildings that surrounded the green. For a few of the ax strokes they stood there, stupidly watching as the boy hacked at their monument. Then, as one. they surged forward, shouting for him to stop. But as they got closer, the mob slowed and then, again as a single body, shuffled to a halt. William Pickett no longer looked the part of the placid farm boy they had always known.

  After a dozen blows, the pole came crashing down, the monstrous head of the dragon jarred loose from the sharpened end and tumbled to the ground, its eyes staring back into the gathered crowd. Will leapt atop the battered trophy, ax in hand. He looked out over the faces of his neighbors. He hadn’t cared that these ­people had swindled his grandfather. He had ignored that they had ridiculed his father and shunned his mother out of decent society. This was the last straw.

  When he spoke, the anger in his voice burst like a thundercloud. “There was a time when I might have stood on this green and celebrated the death of this monster with all of you, but that time is past. For too long the ­people of this village have taken advantage of my family. I am William Pickett; it was in our field that the dragon died, and my sister and I alone paid the price for its death—­and we alone will claim its bounty.”

  At his words, a fat man in a florid costume of brocade and velvet stepped forward. Holding a lace cloth to his mouth and nose against the stench of the gory head, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Instead, his eyes bulged for a moment and he swayed on his feet. In fact, Will noticed that every face in the crowd had turned slightly and was staring at something behind him and to his right. He spun around, ax still clutched in one hand. The Princess stood in the back of the old cart. The evening sun sparkled in her golden hair and silhouetted her body through the sheer gown. Despite her state of undress, she dominated the little gathering. Her sky blue eyes—­he’d just known they would be blue—­surveyed the square with a detached coldness. He frowned a little, though. Animated now by the force of her personality, the Princess’s face showed a regal rigidness, making her more beautiful than pretty.

  Then she spoke: “Noble sir, slayer of the Great Wyrm of the South, I am the Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair. For thy deeds, I give myself to thee, for as thou art my savior so am I thy bounty.” Her voice rang like a bell, but the words were delivered in a monotone, almost like she was reading from a script. With the speech finished, she lowered herself to her knees, and bowed her head.

  Will Pickett stood, eyes wide, the dragon’s head forgotten, and stared at the woman in front of him. His mind was blank. He could not move. He could not speak. Behind him a woman fainted, from the sound of the moan he thought it might be Gretel. In the confusion, the fancy man slipped quietly away. The frozen moment stretched on uncomfortably. It was finally broken by the Princess. She raised cold blue eyes and with a cross expression said, “Well, how long are you going to keep me kneeling here? I do hope you’re not a mute.”

  Will opened his mouth, but his mind could think of nothing to say and so he closed it again. The Princess stood and, putting hands to hips, shouted, “Don’t stand there like a pack of imbeciles, someone say something. And for God’s sake someone bring me something to wear, can’t you see I’m half naked?”

  Into the awkward silence that followed came the thunder of hoofbeats. King Rupert’s representative to the Southern Valley galloped out of Prosper and north toward the castle. Whether Will wished it or not,
word was already spreading across the land.

  The dragon was slain, the Princess rescued. The kingdom had a savior. Prince Charming, it was not. His name was William Pickett of Prosper.

  Chapter 3

  Towers, Trysts, and Trials

  AS EVENTS UNFOLDED to the south, the Prince of the Realm, a man so aptly called Charming, who had been raised from birth to believe himself to be nothing less than legend, had chosen not to spend this day, or the week before or even the last few years, questing for the dragon. Instead, he had escaped the castle to dally with a lovely lady of noble birth renowned for her extensive golden tresses.

  Such a distraction was surely his due. Quests and dragons could wait awhile for Prince Charming, particularly as his first duty on killing the dragon would likely be to marry Princess Gwendolyn, which truth be told, Charming found rather distasteful. She was his princess, he supposed, but she had also been his father’s princess. Though he would have little choice, as he could not risk disappointing his father, the King, it was an unpleasant thing to think about. So he didn’t. He would spend his time on other conquests of the heart until duty called.

  And on this day, what a conquest! The lady truly had spectacular hair, and once she had undone her intricate braids, he had to swim in a sea of soft gold to reach her. They had chosen one of her family’s older and little-­used towers for their tryst. It was of the classical style, with a single heavy wooden door at the base and single great window carved into the uppermost chamber. At the moment, the sun was streaming through this window, framing him perfectly as he embraced the lady on a low settee.

  “As I touch your fragrant golden tresses,

  I am moved by your inner beauty.”

  He silently congratulated himself for using ­couplet. As a true student of the art of romance, he knew that there was nothing that could win the heart of a maiden better than a powerful ­couplet. The women who surrounded him in the court always cooed and sighed when he chose to grace them with his poetic flourishes. He gave a quick glance to the mirror in her bedroom to make certain he looked as dashing as ever.

  She cleared her throat and spoke in a tone that suggested she was repeating herself. “What about my inner beauty?”

  He closed his eyes and paused, as if enraptured. It was now time to add rhyme.

  “Such a vision of loveliness as you,

  Leaves my tongue lost while my heart speaks love true.”

  He waited for the inevitable sigh and, of course, for her to throw herself at him. She placed her hands on his silk doublet and pressed close against him, literally enfolding him in her tresses. “Did you just say you love me?”

  He opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “Um . . .” he started, then realizing he wasn’t in ­couplet, he quickly turned his head and gave a cough. Gently, he removed her hands and, careful not to become too entangled in the somewhat alarming volume of hair that spilled across the room, strode to the window. The Prince visibly paused, as if overcome by the moment, something that she could only take as a true sign of the depth of his spirit. Of course she wanted to hear love in his words; he could hardly blame her, but he had to bring her to understand. Prince Charming had responsibilities, and not just to Princess Gwendolyn. Given his natural charms, it would be selfish of him not to let as many women as possible enjoy them. He gazed out across the folded land so that his profile would be lit most advantageously by the sun’s brilliance.

  “Alas, duty has its calling and its price,

  So may the memory of today be nice.”

  Certainly not his best, but this simple creature would be mesmerized.

  “Duty? What duty? Do you love me?”

  Things had escalated, surprisingly so. Was the lady mad? He was Prince Charming, and while this was a lovely tower, and her family was not without means, the stonework was chipped and the forest green curtains and bedding were out of date, having been woven in his not inexpert estimation at least two years or more ago, when heavy brocade fringes were still in fashion. It was archaic. He wet his lips and inhaled deeply, filling his chest. He outstretched his right arm.

  “I hunger for thee till I have had love’s fill,

  But as to the morrow, thou shouldst not speak shrill.”

  It was a bad day. His meter was varying terribly.

  “Shrill?”

  He sighed. He never should have bothered speaking with her. Better to be silent, look sensitive, and kiss women whenever they opened their mouths. It was clear that this one had little understanding of his and her relative positions in the world, and the meaning of the word tryst.

  “My Prince,” came a hiss from somewhere below. He was annoyed. He had asked not to be disturbed, but he reflected that this interruption might prove to be perfectly timed. Though he often resented his father, the King, for appointing such an obnoxious old man as his squire and bodyguard, in this case, his servant might just prove helpful. The voice returned, this time as a low gravelly rumble. “My Prince, you are needed urgently.”

  Now was the time to win her. He looked back over to the window, leaned out, and peered down at the top of the red balding head of the squire. Making sure to school his face to a stern countenance, the Prince filled his voice with a tone of deep condemnation. “Squire, you forget yourself. The lady and I have courtly matters that we are discussing. And for a man of chivalry, there is nothing more important in this entire world than paying his due respects to a lady.”

  The grizzled old squire stared up at him with that hint of disrespect that reminded the Prince once again that he needed to have the man sacked. “Though I’m sure your . . . discussion with the lady is of utmost importance,” he said with barely disguised disdain, “I think you’ll want to come down and hear the news I bring from the castle.”

  “And so I shall,” he said, this time real anger coloring his tone, “when we are done and perhaps the sun has set on a long day, but for now, you shall remember your place and wait. Now! Go! And never interrupt me and this lady again.” He turned his back to the window and found her smiling. The straps of her dress had made a strategic retreat and her shoulders were now bare. Definite progress, but the thought was cut short by the throaty roar of his damnable servant.

  “THE DRAGON IS DEAD!”

  A sudden rush of blood went to his head and he swayed on his feet as those words echoed in his mind. Something had gone terribly wrong. Whoever this long-­haired woman was in front of him—­the stress of the moment having driven her name fully from his typically impeccable memory—­ didn’t matter. That was his dragon to kill and his legend to be sung by minstrels until the end of days. He steadied himself and then dashed back to the window. “What?” was all he could muster, and even that took effort.

  “It’s amazing, there’s a body, the Princess is rescued, and he even brought the head of the beast back to the King. Word is spreading across the land, the whole kingdom is singing his praises.”

  “That’s not possible, the kingdom is supposed to sing about me. Who is he?”

  “He’s a peasant. I think his name is Tim . . . no . . . Will . . . William?”

  Charming had lost his voice. He raised his hand for the squire to wait. He needed to get out of the suddenly claustrophobic chamber. “I must away,” he told the lady.

  “What about nothing being as important as speaking with a lady?”

  She was obviously irrational with disappointment, and normally he might try to soothe her and, yet, the dragon was dead. He had no time to waste. This was a plot. Yes, that was it; it was an illusion, a deception, a chimera, a glamour meant to delude the ­people. Vile sorceries had to be involved. He brushed past the lady, stumbled through the grasping strands of her hair, and tried the door. It remained unmoved. He cursed as he remembered that he had locked the blasted thing against unwanted intrusions from the crone that looked after the place. He turned back to the lady . . .

 
Lady? . . . Lady?

  Damn, he could not think of her name, the stress of the moment having driven it from his typically impeccable memory. If he could not woo her with words he would simply have to act. He took a step toward her and nearly fell over as her hair wrapped itself around his ankles like a snare. He grunted as he pulled tangles from his feet. “I must away! Where is the key?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere in all this.” She gestured helplessly at her tresses, spread like waves across the floor and over the furniture.

  Her hair was everywhere. The enormity of it all engulfed him, yards and yards of golden locks. He needed the key, but given that her hair seemed to be covering every surface in the room, he thought he would have better luck searching a haystack for a single straw.

  “Fine,” he said perhaps a bit too curtly. “My apologies, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to open this door the hard way.” He reared back on his heel and gave the door a resounding kick. The thick oak registered not even a quiver, and he barely managed to suppress an unprincely yelp as a sharp pain shot through his foot and up his leg. He limped about the room biting his lip against the curses that threatened to erupt.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Of course he wasn’t okay! His dragon was dead! He supposed his princess was in another’s arms!

  Still he had to be as courtly as possible despite that, or perhaps because, this lady was clearly unable to grasp the significance of the tragedy unfolding before them. “I must away. I have to depart for the palace with all due haste. That was my dragon. Do you understand? I have to get out of here!”

  “We’re trapped,” she said much too happily.

  “Are you coming, My Prince?” shouted the squire from below.

  Charming was feeling strange, flushed and hot, and not from lovemaking. He ran a hand across his forehead, inadvertently mussing his perfect hair. He took a deep breath and steadied himself again. I am Prince Charming; nothing is beyond my talents, he reminded himself. He calmed himself and turned back to the lady.