A Most Charming Prince

Two: The Prince's Weighty Endowments

The next day, the prince was two days old, and his mother was frantic as a marooned sailor who accidently stumbles into a village of starving cannibals. There were clothes to pack, gifts to unwrap, letters to write and she still hadn't picked out a wig to wear.

"It could have been worse, my dear," the king said, standing uselessly in the middle of the room. "The soothsayer didn't mention the words prick or ivory tower. It's better he's so handsome that women can't keep their underthings in place than him pricking his finger and laying around in a coma for one hundred years until another prince can rescue him. Or having to let his hair grow long enough it reaches the ground from the top of his tower."

"Stop with how much worse it could have been! We have to send him to a monastery to be raised in secrecy and away from all young women until he is twenty-five!"

"Twenty-five is a bit excessive, don't you feel?" the king asked. "The prophesy is for the eve of his twenty-fourth birthday. Why don't we fetch him one week after his birthday? That should do the trick."

"All right," the queen said. She eyed two barrels full of diapers. Did monks do washing? Should she send more nappies? "But utter secrecy. We send nothing with him, no one can know he is the prince who might plunge the kingdom into war and simultaneously satisfy an entire country of women. Not to mention bring home an amphibious wife. Though I'm sure she'd be lovely on the inside. No. This must be avoided at all costs."

The queen waved at the ladies in waiting. They needed to bring more clean diapers.

The king turned to the wet-nurse, the only person who would know the babe's identity. "Right. Gertrude, you heard the queen. You'll stay with him until ten, and then instruct the monks to give him the Kanot family heirloom jewels, and we'll fetch him one week after he turns twenty-four. One week! Understand? Good."

***

Twenty-three years, three hundred sixty-three days later:

"Well, lad, this is goodbye," Friar Ferdinand said. "As per Gertrude's instructions, two days before your twenty-fourth birthday, you are to be sent home. I must give you this—your family's heirlooms. They will identify you when you reach the castle. There, all will be revealed. Now, it seems like I was supposed to say something about Slagoth Woods...."

"The great woods which mark the border between our country and Darndiddle? It used to belong to Darndiddle entirely until we expanded our borders ten years ago."

"Right. I've never had a better student," the monk said.

"I'll miss you, Brother Ferdinand, and all the brothers," the Prince said, lifting his imposing chin at the two dozen robed monks who sniffled and waved. A stray ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover to land on the Prince's clear brow. The glare was blinding. He raised his hand in farewell, sliver spurs and shoulder plates gleaming, buckles and chainmail clinking. His horse, being in perfect harmony with his royal rider, lunged forward into a gallant gallop, leaving the monks blinking their dazzled eyes. "Farewell!"

The road at the bottom of the mountain pass from the Alt Monastery forked. To the right was Xenith Hills, and to the left was Slagoth Woods. Now, the Prince had studied his geography. In fact, he had studied everything—mathematics, history, philosophy, swordsmanship, dancing, dining etiquette, and even nautical navigation in the hopes that one day their land-locked kingdom would be extended to the sea.

It was faster to go through the Xenith Hills to get to the castle. But it was more dangerous, and therefore more intriguing to go through the Slagoth Woods. Rumors of increased border hostilities had reached the monastery recently. He had plenty of time, and perhaps he might single-handedly restore peace and order to the woods on his way home by slaying a couple hundred outlaws.

Darndiddle was controlled by the family of Il Répoute after the entire royal family had drowned in a freak rowboating accident at a picnic eighteen years ago in the River Rio. Since that time, the self-appointed Ruler Interim, Alonzo Rodriguez Maximillian Répoute, had spread his nefarious influence throughout the land, allowing brigands to rule the ports, thieves to populate the roads, and mayhem and generally bad manners to be common place among the populace.

Come to think of it, the prince might have enough time to restore peace and order to this entire kingdom before making his way to the castle. He sniffed, the heady smell of destiny perfuming the air.

The prince directed his stallion with a slight nudge of his knees, not that it was necessary. The horse already knew which road to take. That's how a true prince's stallion behaved. They entered the darkened woods.

Cue: ominous music.

*** Gertrude, you had one job. One. Job. Well, there's nothing to be done now, the boy is off two days before he turns 24. On the day before his birthday is when the prophecy will take hold... ***