The Unhandsome Prince

by John Moore

  “That’s Prince Kenny,” one whispered to Caroline. “Isn’t he handsome?” Caroline shrugged.

  “I still say he’s a jerk,” said Emily.

  “He was trying to provoke us.”

  “Why? Did he want some sort of incident that would force the King to call off your engagement?”

  “So Hal would turn into a frog? Eh, maybe. But I think he just likes being mean. I’m glad you didn’t say anything out of place.”

  “Give me some credit. What did you two quarrel about?”

  “Quarrel? We didn’t quarrel.”

  “I still have to say I’m surprised. I thought you were attracted to Kenny. Yesterday you were telling me how handsome you thought he was.”

  “Prince Kenny? Handsome?” Caroline appeared to think about this. “I suppose so. I can’t recall that he ever struck me as anything special. If I said otherwise, I’m sure it was just out of politeness.”

  “Say what?”

  “Naturally, since I’ve been engaged to Prince Hal all along, I really haven’t been paying attention to other boys. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “What?”

  “In any case, I’ve always said that looks are not that important in a man.”

  “What?” Emily’s voice rose an octave. The other girls looked at her.

  “What matters most is . . . oh, here’s Jeff! Isn’t he fine?”

  Prince Jeffrey was wearing a brightly colored tunic with a ruffled collar and a silk sash. His hair was brushed back from his face and fell down his back, out from under his hat, which sported a fancy ostrich plume. Like Kenny, he eschewed the stairs into the princes’ box and vaulted the rail. He gave Emily a smile and a shoulder squeeze, and Caroline a brief hug. It would have been briefer, but Caroline seemed reluctant to let go. “Aren’t you in the games this year?”

  “I didn’t make it into the finals. Too much time working on the books and not enough time practicing. I came up to watch Hal.”

  Emily was watching Caroline, and Caroline was looking at Jeff with shining eyes. The younger girl had to admit that she had no idea what was going on in Caroline’s head and gave up speculating about it. She said to Jeff, “I’m amazed that Hal got so far. He didn’t seem so skilled with that sword the night we saw him fight.”

  “Yes,” said Jeff. “Ah, a lot of people are surprised by Hal.”

  The girls in the adjoining boxes were looking at Prince Jeffrey with admiration and at Caroline and Emily with more than a little jealousy. Their attention was distracted when the first contestant in the magic sword division took the field. A short, slight figure moved into the circle of sawdust. It was Prince Hal.

  A shout and a roar went up from the crowd. It was a friendly roar. It was a roar containing applause and a good deal of laughter. It was a roar of friendship. It was not, however, a roar containing respect or admiration. It was the kind of acknowledgment that a well-liked clown might receive. And there is nothing wrong with that, if you are a clown.

  But Hal accepted the applause in good spirits, bowing to the spectators on either side and bowing more deeply to his parents in the royal box. Amy whispered to Emily, “There’s Prince Hal. He’s sort of cute, don’t you think?”

  Emily scowled.

  Caroline was still talking to Jeff. “So the jousting, archery, and swordfighting are the three big events?”

  “Four. The magic swordfighting is a different event, separate from the real swordfighting.”

  “How much is the prize money?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jeff. “It’s not bad. It’s a nice piece of change, but mostly contestants do it for the honor and glory and that sort of stuff. Of course, we don’t get any money out of it anyway.”

  Caroline frowned. “You don’t?”

  “Kenny and I always decline them, and so will Hal. The royal family supplies the awards, so it would just be giving money to ourselves. It would look tacky. So we always turn it down. The people then think that we’re just doing it for the sport, and that’s what we tell them. But of course, it’s our own money we’re declining, so it’s just the same thing as awarding to ourselves anyway.”

  “But Hal said—”

  “The prize money comes out of the gate receipts, but we still make a profit on them. So it works out well for everyone.”

  “But Hal is expecting to win money,” said Caroline. “He told me that. He’s expecting to win a lot.”

  Jeff looked uncomfortable. “Oh that. That’s, um, something else.”

  Caroline looked at him in puzzlement, then shrugged. She edged up closer to Jeff. “Tell me about your swordfighting. How far along did you get in the preliminaries? Did you win any tournaments last year?”

  “Excuse me.” Emily interjected herself, both into the conversation and physically between the two friends. She pulled Caroline to the back of the box and hissed in her ear, “Caroline, what are you doing! You can’t flirt with Prince Jeff. Not when you’re engaged to Hal! He’s right there on the field in front of you.”

  “I’m not flirting! I never flirt. I’m just being friendly. Jeff has been friendly to us, I’m being friendly back. You should be, too.”

  “Okay, I’ll start talking to him right now.”

  “No! I mean, don’t interrupt me. Um, it will make you seem rude. Just watch the tournament.”

  She turned away and stood beside Jeff again. Emily glared at her back, then stood on the other side of the Prince. Jeff was watching the field. “Here comes Hal’s first opponent. A man by the name of Terence Aviral. He uses a sword called Destiny. About a hundred and twenty years old. A very good knight named Peregrine had his skill put into it.”

  Although Hal had gotten cheers, Aviral got steady applause. It was obvious he was the crowd’s favorite, at least for serious betting. He had red hair and was a little over six feet tall.

  “He has a long reach,” said Jeff. “That’s a big advantage over Hal.”

  “Hal isn’t going to get hurt, is he?” Emily looked over the two contestants carefully. Hal was wearing a light armor breastplate and leather gauntlets. It seemed like very little protection. Across the field the King was leaning back in his chair. Hal’s mother was leaning forward, anxiously twisting a handkerchief.

  “He’ll be fine,” said Jeff, not sounding at all convinced.

  “I just hope he doesn’t make a fool of himself again,” grumbled Caroline. “Where’s everybody going?”

  In the other boxes, the girls were getting out of their seats, picking up their pocketbooks, and making final adjustments to their hair. “A good time to take a break,” said Amy.

  “Aren’t you going to watch the fight?”

  Amy glanced back over her shoulder. “What’s there to watch? We’ll be back in time for the real match.”

  All through the stands the spectators were getting out of their seats and trickling toward the food wagons and the beverage booths, while people in the upper rows took advantage of the opportunity to slide down to lower, better seats. “It doesn’t seem right,” said Emily. “They shouldn’t walk out on Hal like that. I think it’s very rude.”

  Caroline was also watching the crowd. “I’m staying. Although I really don’t want to see Hal get clobbered. It was embarrassing enough the last time. I just hope this is short.”

  “He’s out!” said Jeff. “Aviral’s out!”

  “What!” Both girls turned their heads. Hal had already sheathed his sword and was tucking his dagger back into his belt. His tall opponent was leaning over to pick up his sword, where it had been knocked from his hand. He straightened up and shook Hal’s outstretched hand with an expression of pained incomprehension, the look of a puppy that chased a wagon when the wheels suddenly reversed direction and backed over his tail.

  The girls who were leaving their boxes had done an about-face and rushed to the rail. The scene was repeated all around the fairgrounds. The noise level rose, but Emily could discern a string of repeated queries—“What happened? “Prince Hal d
efeated Aviral?” “How?” “Did you see it?” Somewhat belatedly a smattering of applause started in one corner of the stands and was briefly picked up by the rest of the crowd, but most people were more surprised than excited.

  “Well,” said Emily, “that was short.”

  Caroline was hopping up and down with excitement and clapping wildly. “Yes! Yes! That’s my Hal,” she shouted. “Did you see him?” she asked Amy. “The Prince and I are engaged, you know.”

  “I expected this to be a pretty tight match,” said Amy. “I was going to place a small wager on him myself, but I didn’t have time.”

  “Wager,” said Emily. She thought for a minute, then looked back in the direction of the betting tables. “Jeff, did Hal bet on himself to win the tournament?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  “Kind of? How do you kind of place a bet?”

  “He asked me to place the bets for him.”

  “All right. So he is gambling on himself.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Jeff!”

  Hal’s next opponent was coming onto the field. He was not a particularly tall man, but he certainly had a longer reach than the Prince. He had dark hair that gleamed with oil and a waxed and pointed mustache of the style favored by Melinower’s serious duelists. His name was Sir Timothy Bournesse, a young nobleman of moderate wealth. But wealthy enough to hire masters in the art of defense, and with the leisure time to practice it. He bowed to the King and Queen, then he bowed to Hal, but with watchful and suspicious eyes.

  The King was leaning forward in his chair.

  Hal bowed back.

  “It won’t be so easy this time,” said Jeff. “Bournesse has been warned.”

  “What’s his sword?”

  “It’s called the Spirit of Amagon. Amagon was the site of a big battle where Sir Timothy’s ancestors fought and were awarded their lands and title. The sword has been in his family for a long time. It may not be that good a sword. I can’t think that anyone did much with it before Sir Timothy. But Timmy’s pretty damn good even without a magic sword.”

  “How did Hal win the first match? Was it luck?”

  “No,” said Jeff. “Watch and see.”

  The two swordsmen were standing in a circle of sand some ten paces in diameter. Leaving the circle meant you lost the match. So did striking your opponent below the waist or above the neck. In the latter case, of course, your opponent might not live to appreciate your losing. But killing your opponent in the ring was frowned upon. Good sportsmanship was taken seriously in Melinower.

  Which was not to say accidents didn’t happen.

  A solid stab to the torso could win the match, if the referee decided so. A slash gained you points. So did a hit on the arm or shoulder. Contestants could pick up some nasty wounds in a Melinower sword match. Some people claimed that the spectators came to swordfighting tournaments hoping to see blood drawn, that they secretly rooted for an accidental death. These people were considered spoilsports. The spectators all assured one another that they were there to admire the technical proficiency of the combatants. They had not the least desire to see one of them injured. And certainly not killed. Of course not. Not at all. That would be tragic.

  They also agreed that it was certainly exciting when it did happen.

  Sir Timothy stood balanced on the balls of feet, his dagger in front of him and the Spirit of Amagon pointed up in a high guard. Across the sand Hal stood much the same way, except the Asian sword was pointed down in a low guard. Jeff nodded approvingly. Hal did not have the upper body strength of Sir Tim and was conserving his energy. The referee circled the sand ring and rang a bell to start the round.

  “Go Hal!” screamed Caroline.

  Hal’s eyes flicked to her. Instantly, Sir Timothy saw his opening and made his thrust. Just as fast, Hal’s blade parried the Spirit of Amagon, while Hal drew a cut with his dagger. There was a distinct metallic scrape as the point scratched Sir Timothy’s breastplate, then the two men leaped apart.

  “Point for Hal,” said Jeff, watching the referee. “Not a kill strike.”

  There was a round of applause from the crowd. “Good job, Hal,” shouted Caroline.

  The two opponents circled each other. Sir Timothy was watching Hal warily. He hadn’t seen a parry like that before, but he wasn’t going to be taken by surprise again.

  This time Hal made the first move. He feinted with his blade, Sir Timothy moved to parry it with his dagger, but Hal shifted the blade fluidly and slashed it across Sir Timothy’s chest.

  “Another point,” said Jeff.

  “Hal should be the winner,” Caroline pouted.

  “Not for a slash. You need a stab for that. Or one more point.”

  There was more applause from the crowd, sustained this time. Sir Timothy was scowling. Caroline beamed. “The slash is one of my fiancé’s favorite moves,” she told Amy. “I remember when the Prince was challenged to a duel—this was only a few nights before we became engaged—they were using padded swords and . . .”

  “Here they go again,” said Emily.

  The round started, and Sir Timothy made his move immediately, hoping to catch Hal unawares. It was a classic overhand attack. Hal parried it with his dagger and simultaneously made another of his shifting, slashing attacks, so fast Sir Timothy had no hope of deflecting it. Metal blade rang on metal armor, and the match was Hal’s.

  Once again there was a smattering of applause. The Queen was standing up, and even the King was slowly putting his hands together. But the stands were still pretty much empty.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Caroline. “Don’t they want to see this?”

  Amy shrugged. “It’s magic swordfighting.”

  “So?”

  “Well, you know, it isn’t really a sport. It’s basically just sort of a gambler’s thing. I know this is when all the big money changes hands, but most people think it’s a bit—um—sleazy, I guess.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” muttered Caroline. “Doesn’t that boy ever do anything a girl can be proud of?”

  Prince Kenny suddenly appeared in the box again. He elbowed aside the two girls and leaned over the rail. “What the hell is Hal up to? Dammit, I had money bet on Bournesse.”

  “He’s been practicing,” said Jeff.

  “Yeah, right. Where did he get that sword?” Kenny stalked back out without waiting for an answer.

  “Don’t go away mad,” Caroline called after him. Emily was laughing behind her hands.

  There was a break while groundskeepers came out and raked the sand. Hal bounded over to the box. “What do you think?”

  “You’re doing well,” Caroline assured him. She gave him a hug. Emily looked away. Jeff looked away also.

  “Well, thanks.” Hal separated himself from Caroline. “Jeff, did you place the bets?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Yeah, sort of? How do you sort of place a bet?”

  “It’s kind of a long story. Just stay focused on the next match.”

  “Right. Did Mom give you any trouble about the jewels?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “But she went along with it?”

  “I’ll explain later. You better get back to the ring.”

  “All right. One more match, then we celebrate.”

  “Don’t get overconfident. You still have to win this one.”

  “Relax.” Hal pulled the sword halfway out of the scabbard and snapped it back in. “I’ve got it taken care of.”

  Caroline frowned. “That isn’t the sword you bought at the tavern, is it?”

  “The very same.”

  “But how did you—”

  “Practice,” said Hal. “Plus natural talent, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Jeff. “Now if Mr. Natural will get his butt back to the ring, we can finish this thing.”

  “See you later,” said Hal, and trotted back to the ring.

  “What’s this about bets?” said Caroli
ne. “Jeff, tell me.”

  Jeff sat down and placed his fingertips together. He looked from one girl to the other. “The odds against Hal are very high. So high, in fact, that a large number of bets, judiciously placed, would resolve our family’s financial problems.” He said this in a very pragmatic tone of voice, trying to convey the impression that gambling your way out of debt was a reasonable thing to do, not an invitation to disaster.

  “But he has to win! How did Hal come to be such an expert swordsman?”

  “He has a magic sword.”

  “They all have magic swords,” said Caroline. “Jeff, we were there the night Hal bought that sword. We saw him fight with it. And Jeff, he couldn’t hack his way out of a paper bag with that thing.”

  “There’s a trick to using it. Hal figured out the trick.”

  “What about the bets?” said Emily. “Did you place the bets?”

  Jeff let out a long breath and nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “We didn’t have the money to place the bets we needed. Our financing kind of fell through. So I—uh—borrowed the money from the army officers’ pension fund.”

  “They let you do that?”

  “Well, I’m a prince, after all. And an army officer myself. And I told them I’d pay them back by tomorrow.”

  “All right,” said Emily. “Hal wins this match, you get the money, and you pay back the officers’ club out of the winnings. As long as Hal does his part . . .”

  “No,” said Jeff. “That’s the problem. I have to pay back the pension fund before I can collect the winnings.”

  “Ouch,” said Caroline.

  “The officers placed the bets. They also kept the chits. We have until tomorrow to return the money to the pension fund and collect the chits. Otherwise, the army officers cash in the chits, and the pension fund gets the money.”

  “Nice deal for the pension fund,” said Caroline. “How do you intend to get the money, Jeff?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was buying time, hoping something would come up. I’m going to think of something.”