by Jean Johnson
Sighing heavily, Princess Gisette unbuckled the long belt wrapped three times around her hips and waist. “We are agreed . . . I suppose.”
Lifting his foreleg, Henrik gestured her closer. She inched toward him and he patiently beckoned, until she was almost standing upon him, the long strip of leather trailing from her hand. Taking the end of the belt in his mouth, he dove into the water. The golden object still glinted in the mud right where he had found it.
Frog paws weren’t the kind most suited for digging, but the mud was soft. Kicking up clouds of thick silt, he managed to work enough of the oblong object free and wrapped the belt around it. Tying the knot was a bit complicated, but he managed something that looked like it would hold.
A kick of his hind legs popped him back up to the surface. “Pull it up gently!” he warned the princess. “I have no thumbs, so I wasn’t able to secure it as tightly as I’d wish.”
Nodding, she gingerly tugged on the belt. The leather went taut after a moment, then angled itself through the water as she dragged the object up out of the mud. Stooping, Gisette picked it up. Despite the mud and the leather wrapped around it, Henrik could see it was longish, somewhat lumpy, and not just gilded, but plated in gold, or perhaps even crafted from solid gold. She turned from him as she picked off the leather, then stooped and swished it in the river, but he caught a glimpse of its true shape all the same. Henrik gaped.
“It’s a phallus?” he croaked, as much from surprise as from his enchanted state. “You dropped a gilded phallus?”
“Oh! You . . . you . . . horrible beast!” Flushed with embarrassment, Princess Gisette hiked up her skirts and fled.
“Wait! Wait—our bargain! Please, wait?” Grimacing as she sprinted away, Henrik stared glumly after her. So much for fulfiling Tilda’s demands on how to break his unlucky enchantment. About to consign himself to spending the rest of his life as a frog, he spotted a glint of gold with his swiveling eyes. It was from the buckle of her belt, abandoned on the ground when she had freed her rather naughty toy.
Peering up at the hillside, Henrik made up his mind to follow her. He tucked the leather of the belt into his mouth, letting its ends trail after him like two flat, brown snakes, and started hopping in the direction she and the other two maidens had gone. It might take him all day to hop his way after her, but he doubted she had wandered overly far with her amusing, symbolic prize.
With her muddied belt in his possession as proof of their bargain, he just might have the means of enforcing that bargain, and thus have a chance at ending his enchantment. If he could find where she had gone.
Nothing like a long hike, a difficult quest, and an uncertain chance of success to make a man-turned-frog feel humble, he thought. Well, that and stubborn. I will not let Fairy Tilda win. I will break her curse. Somehow.
THE knock at the door disrupted supper. It wasn’t often the royal family came to this hunting lodge, but when they did, King Henri preferred not to be disturbed. Dinner, the midday meal, was the time for requests and interruptions, but not the evening meal. The guards knew this, and it was a hesitant knight who poked his helmed head through the doorway.
“What is it?” King Henri inquired, his attention deliberately focused on cutting into his lamb chop. Queen Jeanne eyed her husband, then the guard, waiting to hear his excuse for disturbing their tranquillity. Princess Gisette picked up her goblet and sipped at the freshly squeezed grape juice it contained, unconcerned by the interruption.
“Um . . . sire . . . there is a . . . well . . . a talking frog outside,” the guardsman said apologetically.
Gisette choked.
Her father stilled the movements of his fork and knife. “A what?”
“A talking frog, sire. He claims he assisted Her Highness with a certain task earlier, in exchange for a certain set of privileges and, erm, has even returned with Her Highness’s belt as proof of their lawfully made barter, in order to claim those privileges.”
Henri rested his wrists on the edge of the table. He studied his blushing, throat-clearing daughter. “I take it from your reaction that this . . . talking frog . . . has a truthful claim?”
Embarrassed, Gisette nodded glumly. There was no way out of this, though she’d hoped she had left the memory of her humiliation and that frog far behind this morning. If it’s not to be, the only thing I can do is control any possible damage. I hope. Cheeks hot, she watched as the guard ducked out again, no doubt to fetch the talking frog she had met. My best hope is to make sure he doesn’t mention what he helped me retrieve.
She snuck a glance at her father, but he had gone back to carving up his meat. A glance at her mother showed Queen Jeanne’s blue eyes studying her daughter. Her mother said nothing, though. Not quite hungry anymore, Gisette waited for the guardsman to return.
When he did, the knight entered with the green and yellow frog balanced on his chain-mail-clad hands. Her belt was caught in the frog’s mouth and draped over the knight’s wrists, visibly damp and muddy. The golden buckle had little tufts of grass caught along its hinge, a testament to the long journey the frog had undertaken, hopping from the riverbank almost half a mile away.
Guilt seeped into her thoughts, mixing with her embarrassment. He’s so small, and it’s such a long way from the river . . .
“This is the talking frog?” her father asked, skepticism coloring his voice.
The frog removed the belt from his mouth. “Greetings, Your Majesty. I am Henrik, and I do apologize for disturbing your meal, but I have business with Her Highness. Earlier today, I helped your sweet, kind daughter fetch her lost possession from the mud of the river, in exchange for a certain promise, which she now needs to fulfill.”
“Lost possession?” King Henri repeated, glancing at his daughter. “What did you lose in the river, Gisette?”
“My ball!” she blurted quickly, flushing with the fear the frog might answer for her. “The wooden one you gave me when I was twelve, the one that was gilded? I took it down by the river to play with it—you know how I love to play with my ball . . .”
Her father gave her an indulgent smile. “That’s my little girl . . . Now, what is this about a bargain you made with this frog?”
“It’s quite simple. Your daughter tripped and accidentally dropped her . . . ball . . . in the river. I offered to help her fetch it from the river in exchange for finding out what it would be like to live as your daughter does. To eat off the same fine plates as she does every day, to sleep on the same fine sheets as she does every night—to live in the lap of luxury, as it were, rather than on the banks of a cold, muddy river.”
“A frog who wishes to live like a princess?” Queen Jeanne questioned. “A male frog?”
“More to the point, a male frog who wishes to sleep in the same bed as my little daughter?” King Henri growled.
Gisette wished she could crawl under the table and hide without making matters worse.
“As much as I am willing to respect Your Majesty’s rank and title,” the frog explained calmly, “such an accusation is patently absurd. I am a frog, sire. Logistics alone render impossible any threat to your daughter’s virtue. Never mind that she isn’t a fellow amphibian, and thus isn’t terribly appealing—I’m certain she’s quite lovely by your human standards,” he croaked in an aside, “but her skin would have to be considerably more moist and green for me to look twice at her in such a manner.
“Your daughter gave her word that she would treat me as her dearest friend for the next month, in exchange for my assistance in fetching her . . . ball. I have upheld my part of our bargain, and have even fetched home the belt we used to fish the . . . ball . . . out of the river, which she left behind in her haste to return home. Now I am here, awaiting the upholding of her end of the matter. It is a matter of honor that I am here. Your little girl’s word of honor, in specific.”
“I see.” Turning once more to his daughter, King Henri asked, “Gisette, did you indeed swear you would treat him as your closest compa
nion for a full month?”
“Well, yes, but . . .” Gisette wanted to protest that the whole idea was absurd, but she’d heard those slight hesitations over the word ball. Henrik was not only a talking frog, he was an intelligent talking frog. That subtle pause told her he wouldn’t hesitate to say what she had really lost in the river.
“Then you should have brought him home with you,” her father chided her, surprising Gisette. “When a princess gives her word, she needs to uphold it. You’ll never grow up to be a good queen one day if you don’t behave like one from the start. Guardsman, bring the frog to the table, and set him by Her Highness.”
Gisette sat there in misery as the knight settled Henrik the Frog next to her plate. She accepted her muddied belt, barely managing to murmur a “Thanks.”
Her mother cleared her throat, managing a cordial smile. “Well. I must say we don’t often entertain such . . . unusual visitors. Particularly during one of our private family retreats. But is there, erm, something we can have the servants fetch for you? I’m not sure if our chef knows how to cook, er, flies and things, but I’m certain he’d be willing to try,” Queen Jeanne offered politely.
“A bowl of tepid water would be deeply appreciated, if it isn’t too much trouble,” Henrik stated. “It was a very long hop from the river, and I’m quite thirsty. Not to mention I wasn’t exactly given the time or the means to make myself more presentable. Otherwise, whatever you’re having smells divine. Just be so kind as to cut it up into very small portions, and I should have no trouble at all, I think.”
Queen Jeanne gestured, and the knight bowed and took himself out of the room, no doubt to fetch the requested bowl of water. “You have a remarkable air about you, Sir Frog,” the queen added as she turned back to their unexpected guest. “Are all frogs so dignified?”
“When one is merely a frog, dignity is often all that one has,” Henrik pointed out. “Dignity and good manners, that is. I thank you for being willing to share your meal with me.”
Wishing she had never shown her two handmaidens that naughty birthing-day gift from her mother, Gisette carefully cut up some of her own lamb. She nudged it to the very edge of her silver plate, hoping she didn’t have to actually feed it to the frog next to her. That would involve touching the frog. Gisette had never been the sort of girl to go around catching and holding frogs, snakes, and other such woodland creatures.
She jumped when his tongue shot out, snagging one of the little bits of lamb. He flicked it out again, snagging one of the chickpeas as well. A hum escaped the frog.
“Oh, my, that’s better-tasting than a horse fly! Whatever did your chef fry that in?” Henrik asked her.
“Er . . . bacon drippings, I think?” Gisette offered.
“Very tasty. My compliments to your chef.”
Her mother smiled. “I’ll pass that along. Ah, here comes your water, erm . . . Sir Frog.”
“Henrik, please; as your daughter’s new companion, I would hope we could dispense with formality. At least, when not in a formal setting,” Henrik added.
“I wouldn’t think frogs would have much use for formal settings,” King Henri observed.
Climbing into the bowl the knight set on the table, Henrik paused to thank the man, then addressed the king’s comment. “Normally we don’t, I will admit. As I said, most of the others lack sufficient intellect. But the fairies do visit all manner of creatures, granting some of us unusual abilities . . . and it does not pay to insult or slight a fairy, as many of us have learned through the years. Thus, polite manners are preferred nearly everywhere one goes.”
His tongue darted out again as he clung to the edge of the silver bowl, snagging another piece of meat. It was a remarkably graceful move, for he neither lost the targeted chunk of lamb nor disturbed any of the others on the edge of her plate. He was also charming, erudite, dignified, and a remarkably good conversationalist as the meal progressed. Gisette almost forgot Henrik was a frog, particularly when he related an amusing tale involving a trio of forgetful fairies who were supposed to be watching a young prince one summer day.
But every time she glanced his way, she could see his diminutive form, his glistening green-and-gold skin and his bulging, independently moving eyes. She not only had to feed him, she had to keep him by her side . . . and let him sleep in her bed.
When the meal ended, Gisette rose and curtsied, more than ready to escape. A ribbitty clearing of Henrik’s throat reminded her of her next painful duty. To take the frog back to her quarters with her. From the dubious looks on the faces of the maidservants clearing the table, they weren’t about to offer to carry him for her. Even her own father slanted her an expectant look. And her mother . . . well, Gisette blamed her mother for starting this whole mess.
Sighing roughly, she held out her hand and tried not to flinch too much as Henrik climbed onto her palm. His skin was cool and wet, though not quite as slimy as she had imagined it would be. In fact, picking up the long, muddy leather of her belt felt worse than the frog did. Gingerly holding on to both, Gisette retreated upstairs to her bedchamber.
The royal hunting lodge was actually a modest keep. It had six bedchambers above the great hall and a large garden within its stout stone walls. Her chamber was one of the ones overlooking the garden. With the window open to the cooling breezes of the late summer night, she could hear the sounds of a pair of minstrels playing for the entertainment of the residents down in the garden, and the delicate singing of Annette, one of her wayward handmaidens.
If Annette hadn’t tried to grab my present out of my hands, I would’ve seen that root or rock or whatever, and I wouldn’t have tripped. I wouldn’t have had to make a bargain with a toad to get it back from the mud, and I wouldn’t be stuck with a reptile for a roommate. In fact, I would be down there right now, having fun with the others, now that our private supper is finished . . .
Henrik’s deep voice interrupted her petulant thoughts. “If you would be kind enough to provide another bowl with fresh water, I would appreciate it.”
“Are you so interested in being clean?” Gisette retorted. “At least you have the sense to know when you are slimy, and therefore unwanted.”
Henrik twisted both of his eyes to focus on her at the same time. “Frogs drink through our skin, Your Highness. Depriving me of water to bathe in is literally depriving me of the liquid I need to survive. I may be merely a frog at the moment, but to slay me with thirst would still be murder.”
Gritting her teeth, Gisette set him gently on her writing desk and fetched her washbasin. She rinsed out the bowl, in case he objected to soap in his precious water, then filled it from the pitcher and set the broad bowl next to him. “Your water, Sir Frog. Now, if you are quite comfortable, you can bathe in privacy all you like. I am going to go down to the garden to listen to the minstrels.”
“Right now, you and I are going to have a little talk,” he countered, ignoring the bowl at his side. “Or would you like me to hop downstairs and apologize to your father for lying about what I really helped you fetch from the river?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“Fine. You can come with me to hear the minstrels.” She reached for him, but he scooted back.
“Not so fast, Princess. As I said, you and I need to talk first,” Henrik corrected. “The first thing we need to discuss is why you lied to your father.”
Guessing he wasn’t going to let the subject go, Gisette sat down in the chair at her writing desk. “Fine. I lied because my father still thinks of me as a little girl. I just turned twenty years of age, yet he still thinks of me as if I were twelve! Do you know what he gave me for a present?” she asked, folding her arms defensively across her breasts. “A doll. A lovely porcelain-headed doll, imported all the way from the East, but nonetheless a doll! I haven’t played with dolls since I was fifteen! He refuses to accept that I have grown up!”
Henrik croaked. It was a soft, low, surprisingly sympa
thetic sound. “No wonder you didn’t want the phallus mentioned in his presence . . .”
She blushed. “It was a gift from my mother, given to me in private. She knows that I’m a woman grown, even if he won’t admit it.”
Henrik scratched his head with a hind foot. “I suppose it is a good gift for a grown woman, but . . . why would your own mother give you one?”
“Ever since I turned sixteen, princes and noblemen have been asking Father for my hand in marriage, and Father has been turning them down. He constantly insists I am far too young to wed. Even Mother thinks he’s getting ridiculous about it. She’s warned him that I just might elope one of these days, should I ever find a young man worthy of me, but no, he is as blind as an owl in the daylight.
“I do confess I have been tempted, simply so that I can finally be treated as an adult . . . but I’d rather not run away with just anyone. Most of the young men Father allows to be around me are too young, and rather featherbrained. Handsome enough of face, but dull-witted of mind. Mother thought I should have a . . . you know . . . so that I can at least temper the urges I get, as a fully grown woman,” Gisette confessed, glad Henrik was a frog and not a human. It just seemed easier to confess these embarrassing things to a mere frog. “She says it’s better to use a safe substitute than to let myself be swayed by a momentary lust into doing something stupid.”
“Your mother is a wise woman,” Henrik praised.
“Yes, and I’m a fool for showing my handmaidens what she gave me,” Gisette muttered.
Through the open window, the sounds of singing and playing came to an end. The listeners in the garden applauded, and requests were called out for another performance. Gisette glanced longingly at the window.