by Jack Heckel
With this question echoing in her mind, she entered her quarters. A waiting servant rushed forward to attend her. Waving the girl away and out, the Princess bolted the door. Alone, she wandered the chamber, seeking inspiration. Across the room stood a mirror. A strange woman looked back. It was her body twirling the necklace back and forth between her fingers, but her face was drawn, her eyes were red and swollen from weeping, and gray fingers of mist seemed to draw inward from the margins of the mirror to obscure and twist her features.
It was perfect.
The King was near mad with the desire to see her. She suspected that he wished to seek her forgiveness, forgiveness for a lifetime of neglect! She would give him that audience but would not forgive. She would tell him that seeing him at the ball, and remembering them together, had driven her to distraction—which was mostly true anyway. To relieve himself of even a measure of his guilt, he would go wherever she commanded for howsoever long she desired. After all, fleeing and hiding is what the King did best.
In the end, I was nothing to him but a poor substitute for Rosslyn.
Memories of Rosslyn came rushing unbidden out of the past. The visions played out on the surface of the mirror: a dark clearing in the forest, the fairy, her wish, and then finding her sister’s lifeless body. The pain of her grief bent her double and threatened to sweep her into a deeper darkness. With an effort, Gwendolyn shook herself free from the memories. The gray mist and shadows departed, and her own reflection returned.
“I must hold myself together, to be this sad little princess for a time,” she said to the reflection. “Let the King see my misery, and he will be gone from the castle within the hour.”
She rose and strode from the room toward the King’s chamber. As she walked, she turned the situation over again in her mind. After the King, I must turn my attention to his son. Though the Prince had certainly made an enemy of the Picketts with his performance last night, if sufficiently nagged by Elizabeth, William might choose to confess to the Prince instead. I need time. Time to bind William to me.
When she first met them, Gwendolyn had thought the Picketts were out of place in the castle, but on reflection, they were the perfect addition to the court: a pair of liars to bookend an old coward and a young fool.
AN INSISTENT POUNDING on the door of his bedchamber brought Charming awake with a groan. He blinked against the bright midday light streaming through the open balcony doors. The Prince had been having a dream that left him at once contented and melancholy. He grasped desperately at the fading visions, but the more he tried to remember, the more they slipped away.
He cradled a glass slipper against his chest, and it sparkled in the sunlight like a gem. It was her slipper, Lady Elizabeth’s. She had been in his dream. How could he not dream of her? Last night they had danced, and it had been almost perfect. Then that damnable Lady Rapunzel interrupted. Well, Rapunzel could be sure of one thing—he’d never forget her name again. After his fight with Will, after his humiliation of Lady Elizabeth, he had been banished to his chambers by his father, the King, where he had drunk . . . how much? He looked around the room at the half-dozen discarded wine bottles and groaned.
The knocking returned and reminded him that he ached from head to toe, but mostly head. Though he intended to deliver a royal command, the words that escaped were a weak, “Go away. In the name of the King, go away!”
Princess Gwendolyn’s voice came sweetly, but very firmly, through the door. “Prince Charming, are you there? If I may, I would like to have words with you.”
Bloody hell! The Princess.
He sat up, and the sudden rise made his head spin and his vision grow dark. He looked at the mirror hung on the wall opposite his bed and barely suppressed a yelp of shock. Reflected in the glass was a horror. His eyes were shot with red and surrounded by heavy bags. His nose was mottled blue and purple, and looked two sizes larger than normal, and a brown-red trail of crusted blood twisted down the right side of his face. He blanched as he saw that even his perfectly coifed locks were matted and stiff. There was no one, apart from Lady Elizabeth, that he wished to see less right now than Princess Gwendolyn.
He attempted to answer her, but now his stomach had started to betray him. “Hmmm . . . hmm . . . Princess Gwendolyn, I am afraid I am indisposed at the moment. Perhaps I could call on you . . . hmmmm . . . later.”
He closed his eyes. If she did not see him, and he regained couplet, he could save this from becoming another incident. Yet he found couplet was impossible when one was trying not to retch.
“I’m afraid that is impossible, Your Highness. This is a matter of urgency.”
The handle to the door turned and, aghast, Charming realized that in last night’s stupor, he had failed to bolt his door. He looked about the room for a place to hide, but it was impossible. He could barely move. If he tried to dash to his changing room, she would likely find him collapsed on the floor in a pool of his own sick. Still, he was Prince Charming, and if any man could find a way to salvage this, he would.
Thinking quickly, he pulled the cords holding back the curtains on his canopy bed. The door opened as the heavy velvet fabric fell into place on either side of him. The side drapes threw dark shadows onto the head of the bed, partially obscuring him, and he settled himself as far back as he could into the darkness.
There was movement in the room. “Prince Charming? Are you still abed?”
Her voice sounded strange, like she was on the verge of laughing. He heard her graceful steps, and the curtain to his left rippled as though blown by a breeze. He gathered himself and then looked down at his hands. He was still holding the damned glass slipper, Lady Elizabeth’s slipper. He shoved the incriminating footwear beneath his pillow just as Princess Gwendolyn appeared in the open square of light at the foot of his bed.
“Are you there, dear Prince?”
Couplet still escaped him. The mere thought of attempting verse made his head hammer with pain. He cleared his throat again, then said, “I am here, Princess Gwendolyn. I fear I find myself unwell this morning. I know that a man of my renowned constitution is rarely in such a condition, yet I fear that even I have had far better days. I was about to call the Royal Chirurgeon when you arrived, so perhaps it would be better if you called again later.”
He could see her now, peering into the gloom. With a sharp intake of breath, she asked, “My dear Prince Charming, what has that deranged woman done to you?”
No sooner had the question slipped from her red lips, than she disappeared from view and the curtain to the right of him began undulating in and out as though she were searching for an opening. Charming grabbed the edge of the cloth, holding tight to prevent her from pulling it aside. A tug-of-war ensued that was as desperate as it was childish and pointless.
“My dear . . . Princess . . . Gwendolyn, please do not bother . . . yourself. I will be fine. I”—with a strength that was alarming, the Princess yanked the curtain from his hands. Bright sunlight flooded the bed, and he shielded his eyes from the stabbing pain that followed. Charming was winded from his struggle and could only gasp out a weak—“just need some rest.”
Gwendolyn looked appalled when she gazed down on him. “My poor Prince Charming, let me tend your injuries.” She looked first at his nose, and then pulled back his bangs uncovering the black-and-purple bruise there. “That awful woman. How many times did she strike you? To think that she would dare lay hands on you, and in front of the entire court.”
From nowhere, she produced a cloth and a basin of cool water. With a surprisingly gentle hand, she began scrubbing off the dried blood.
“Please, Princess Gwendolyn, do not concern yourself with me. I assure you I have had worse,” he lied. “Please, tell me what words we may exchange.”
“Oh no, my prince,” she protested, “I would not burden you, not now that I know your condition.”
; He overrode her. “Princess, I assure you, nothing would make me feel better than to put your mind at rest so that you may return to your leisure. After all, helping a lady in need is my highest aim.”
“Oh, Prince Charming, you are so noble. I feel I cannot, not now.”
Charming knew he was only barely holding himself together. This interview could not last much longer or he would either pass out or sick-up all over the lady. Barely stifling a belch, he began, “P-Please, Princess Gwendolyn, I will not rest easy until I know what has put you in such a state.”
She did not look at him but rather turned her back and addressed the open window. “Prince, it is your father, the King, he—”
She turned, and her face was a mask of anguish. A sudden fear shot through Prince Charming. “My father, the King, is he unwell? Speak, tell me what is wrong?”
She paused a few agonizing heartbeats before answering, in which time all manner of terrible thoughts raced crossed the Prince’s mind. Finally, when he thought he might have to shake her to get her to speak again, she said hurriedly, “No, he is well, it is just he —he—oh, how can I say this to you? The King has fled the castle, and no one is sure where he is.”
He had imagined many things, but not this. His father, the King, had left? At this time? A sudden suspicion grew within him. “Did he say why he was leaving? And why do I receive the news from your lips, Princess?”
Gwendolyn moved to turn away again and he caught her arm. He continued, “Pray, tell me what you know of my father, and be quick!”
“Oh, Prince, my Prince, you must forgive him. He is not himself. He—”
The sickness in his stomach was returning. He felt weak and tired and ill-mannered, so he cut her off midsentence. “Speak plainly, Princess. Pray speak plainly.”
To her credit she did just as he asked, without emotion. “I have been told by advisors trusted to the King that he has abandoned the court out of shame. He fled early this morning and left word that he would not return until you have restored his good name, or the Lord Protector is crowned. Riders have been sent to all of the royal residences, but thus far there is no report of him.” As an afterthought, she added a monotone, “I am sorry.”
Charming was silent as the full weight of this revelation struck him. He knew the Princess was standing there, watching and measuring him, and for once he did not care. My father, the King, would rather banish himself from the court he loves than stay another moment in my presence. Is this just a retreat or, even now, is my father, the King, being forced from the throne for my repeated failures? He could feel the sting of tears in his eyes, and still he could not rise to fight them back.
Gwendolyn’s voice cut through his thoughts. “My dear Prince, it gives me pain to see you like this. I just did not want you to hear the news from someone that did not care for you as I do.”
Something in those last words made Charming look back at her. “Care for me? I thought Lord William, the Lord Protector—you danced with him the whole night.” He stopped, realizing that the raw need in his voice was not for the Princess, but for another.
She was beside him in a flash, stroking the palm of his hand with her fingertips. “Prince, don’t you see that I was only doing my duty? I could barely keep the clod from breaking my toes, so often did he step on them during our dance. All night I looked for you, but you were engaged with Lady Rapunzel.” She lifted his hand to her breast, clutching it tightly. “We were meant for each other, you and I, Prince. As for Lord William, I could no more be content with that dirt-farmer peasant than you could be with his sister.” She laughed openly at the suggestion that he might feel something for Lady Elizabeth.
At Lady Elizabeth’s name, his stomach became uneasy again. “Princess Gwendolyn, I don’t think—”
“Shhh,” she hushed him. “I know that it seems impossible now, but we can still be together.”
“But what about my father, the King—?”
“Of course, you must do your best to seek his return,” she interrupted again. He was already tired of her penchant for interrupting. A fortnight ago, no one would have dreamed of interrupting him. She continued. “But don’t you see the solution to bringing us together and satisfying your father, the King, is one in the same?”
She dropped his hand and began speaking quickly. “You need a chance to rebuild your reputation in the court, but you’ll never be able to do so while people are comparing your deeds with those of the Lord Protector. He killed a dragon, the dragon, and you have spent your days in more . . . romantic pursuits. No one can blame you for that, but you need to leave this castle, go out among the people, and prove your mettle. You have to show them the hero that you truly are and restore your name and honor.”
He had to admit, it made sense. If his father, the King, was in trouble, it might give Charming a way to restore his name and position. He would venture forth and be the Lord Protector in deed, even if Will remained it in title. Just thinking about questing and fighting was making him feel like his old self again. He knew he was a better man than William Pickett, how could he not be? As far as he could tell, Will could not sing or recite poetry; and the way he slouched all the time, he would look a mess atop even the most noble of steeds. The Prince had spent his whole life being pampered and praised and told that he was destined to be the kingdom’s hero and king. Now it was time to prove it.
At some point, the Princess had risen and was now standing at the foot of the bed, gazing into the mirror hung on the wall there. She turned and was highlighted perfectly by the sun. Gwendolyn was without a doubt beautiful, and honor demanded that a lady’s beauty be recognized and remarked upon. He had to attempt couplet. He concentrated and felt a quiet confidence infuse his body. Prince Charming half rose in his bed, then turned so that only his less battered left side could be seen.
“Gwendolyn, most fair, hear these words true,
I shall venture forth and prove myself to you.”
At long last, he had regained couplet.
The Princess sighed. “Oh, Prince Charming, you remind me of the King, when he was a younger man.” She blew him a kiss and said, “Do not tarry a moment longer in your noble pursuit. Every day you delay is another day that our love is denied.”
The Prince thought one more line of verse was in order, but by the time he had captured the proper turn of a phrase, the door was closing behind her. She was gone. He smiled. She was clearly overwhelmed by my poetry and had to make her escape before she was overcome.
He leaned back on his pillow, hands folded behind his head, and addressed the canopy above. “I know that duty demands that she be my queen, and I will do my duty in time, but I cannot say the thought fills me with joy. For now, it is best that she is gone.”
Charming shook his head sadly. There was an inevitability to fulfilling the demands of honor that he had always avoided thinking about. He could not imagine being with the former love of his father, the King. The thought disgusted him. It would be like sleeping with his, well, mother in a way. In time he would learn to accept it, he supposed. He sighed softly to himself and then dismissed the issue as a problem for another day.
He considered the idea of a quest. There were certainly enough monstrosities roaming the lands. A manticore, a giant, possibly an ogre, or a troll or two would certainly remind the people, and maybe even Lady Elizabeth, who he was and, in turn, cover his father, the King, in reflected glory. The matter at hand now was how to make himself presentable enough to go out on a quest. Once he started receiving the cheers of the people, he would need to look the part of the hero. Perhaps with some subtle makeup and the right hat. Yes, there were certainly possibilities.
He swept the covers aside and jumped out of bed. He felt at once renewed as he imagined the songs of redemption and triumph that would be sung about him. He would be compared to the phoenix rising from the ashes.
&nbs
p; Standing by the open window, he struck his most heroic pose and, taking a deep breath, declared, “I swear I will make my father, the King, proud—or die trying.”
Then a wave of nausea struck and he fell to his knees retching.
WILL WAS WANDERING the castle halls, lost, both literally and metaphorically.
After giving himself what he thought was an appropriate amount of time to work up his courage and mourn what would certainly be his last day as Lord Protector and Dragon Slayer, he had packed a small satchel with his things, dressed in his farm clothes, and marched off to face the King. His plan was quite simple: confess to his lie and beg his sister’s ignorance, not that she had to know that in advance. He hoped he would just be sent away in disgrace, but was prepared, as much as anyone could be, for the worst.
As usual, things didn’t go to plan.
When he arrived at the throne room, he was informed that the King had left the castle and no one would tell him where His Royal Majesty had gone or when he would return. As confessing to the King was supposed to have removed future decision making from his hands, and maybe even his head from his body, he wasn’t sure now what to do. On top of that, Will had a habit of wandering aimlessly when he needed to think. True to form, his feet had begun to roam, first down this hall and then through that great chamber and then up that stair, until he was adrift in the sea of stone that was the castle.
Thoroughly lost, he stopped at an intersection of five passages. Each corridor looked just like the other. They were each lined with armor, lit by candles, and decorated with the King’s gaudy coat of arms. Will had just resigned himself to being lost when the Prince, dressed in what could only be described as fashionable adventuring garb, and wearing the largest, floppiest, featheriest hat Will had ever seen, rounded a corner and strode dramatically toward him.