The Prince Problem

by Vivian Vande Velde

  * * *

  The rest of him had dried in the sun, but Telmund woke up with one foot in the water.

  At least it was a foot and no longer one of those flipper/flapper things.

  And at least the sun, though alarmingly low in the sky, was still shining bright enough to see by, though nighttime’s shadows would be closing in shortly.

  He had seen which way the men had taken the princess, and he hoped the one man had been accurate when he’d indicated Prince Sheridan’s hunting lodge was nearby.

  Ignoring the unpleasant squishy sensation of his right foot in his soaked boot (physical discomfort meant nothing to story heroes, who could continue despite grievous wounds), Telmund headed off into the woods. It was darker among the trees, but the horses’ passage had broken through the underbrush, and he was able to follow that trail until—not too very much farther along—he came to an actual path. He examined both directions until he found hoofprints leading off to the left. This was something that the hero of an adventure story would have done, and Telmund felt a pride and satisfaction that he was finally accomplishing something. Hopefully, the path led directly to the hunting lodge without any branching off, because by now it was too dark to make out any details beyond clear path and wall of bordering trees. And even that wasn’t always as apparent as it could have been.

  And then, happy sign, he could smell smoke from a wood fire, and he was able to follow his nose the remainder of his way to the lodge.

  His own father had two hunting lodges, both big enough to accommodate substantial hunting parties, including houndsmen, falconers, servants, and cooks. Prince Sheridan’s lodge was bigger than either of those in Rosenmark.

  Prince Sheridan’s lodge was bigger than both the lodges in Rosenmark put together.

  There were three outbuildings. One was the kitchen, separate so as to minimize the likelihood of a cook fire spreading to the main building; one was to house the horses; one was for the falcons—falcons being notoriously easy to startle and injure themselves. The stable and mews were dark. The kitchen and main building both had windows whose shutters were open to let in the cool evening breeze, and light poured out into the darkness from several of these.

  Telmund peeked first into the back window of the kitchen, which was the least likely to tell him anything but a good one on which to practice, since that was the one where he was least likely to be noticed. A story hero might not need practice spying, but it was more important to recognize his limitations than to just jump into things without thinking. He hoped he could be one of those heroes who succeeded by relying on his wits rather than on physical ability, because he had to acknowledge that fighting and swordplay were not his strengths.

  Even ignoring his squishy boot was not one of his strengths. A story hero should not be telling himself he hoped he wouldn’t develop a blister.

  In the kitchen, a cook and her two assistants tended the cook fires in the hearths. They stirred, ladled, carved, dusted with flour, and did other kitcheny things. A procession of serving boys took the platters and carried them out the door and into the main building. The only one not moving at a frantic pace was a scullery maid who sat hunched in the corner close to one of the fires. The rest of the staff was probably being lenient with her because she would be up long after everyone else had gone to bed, cleaning up spills, scouring dishes and pots, banking all the fires, preparing everything to start all over again in the morning.

  Telmund ran to the lodge itself in a low crouch to lessen the chances of being seen. Still, once he reached the building, he had to stand on tiptoe and hold on to the window ledge before he could see into the main hall.

  Many people were present, but no Princess Amelia.

  He had hoped the hunting party of four would be all the men he had to worry about.

  Instead, Prince Sheridan and about two dozen of his men sat at tables, while the kitchen boys brought in a steady supply of more food, and serving girls kept plates and goblets full. A minstrel played a lute and tried to keep the men entertained, but apparently Prince Sheridan didn’t think he was doing a satisfactory job. Just as Telmund looked into the window, the prince flung a half loaf of bread at the musician. A variety of other foodstuffs already littered the floor around the man: a gnawed-on drumstick, an artichoke, a head of cabbage, a goblet that had not been empty when it was thrown.

  Or maybe the throwing was the entertainment.

  There was much loud talk and rowdy laughter and boisterous flirting with the serving girls. Telmund thought some of the laughter sounded forced, to keep the prince in good cheer, but that might have been only because he did not find the prince as humorous as the prince seemed to find himself.

  This was not gentle company for a gentle princess, and Telmund was relieved that Princess Amelia was not present to be subjected to this.

  Not, he had to admit to himself, that she was exactly a gentle princess.

  More importantly, if she wasn’t here, where was she?

  Maybe she had retired to a bedchamber already?

  Stealthily, Telmund walked around the building, trying to see into each window, but some of the shutters were closed. He considered tapping—but what if a room was occupied by someone other than Amelia?

  His second circuit around the building, he listened with his ear pressed to the fastened shutters. He could hear two servants talking in one room, which probably meant that Amelia wasn’t there. Some very unfeminine snoring came from another room, and some indistinct stirring in another—which might have been a servant making up a bed, or someone (a princess?) tossing and turning in agitation. Other rooms were totally quiet, which might mean they were empty, or might mean someone inside was simply totally quiet.

  On one whole side of the building, Telmund had to be on the alert and ready to duck down or flatten himself against a wall so as to avoid being seen by the near-continual succession of kitchen boys replenishing the food for the table.

  Did people eat that much in his father’s castle?

  He decided to take another look into the kitchen, to calculate how much longer the meal might last.

  There was still basting and turning of a guinea fowl on a spit, as well as hard-boiled egg peeling, bottle uncorkings, and scraping of used dishes. The scullery maid still hadn’t bestirred herself, and that was going to get her in trouble probably sooner rather than later, as the two assistants were beginning to get anxious and shrill with each other. Telmund had just registered that he wasn’t seeing the cook when a door he hadn’t even been aware of banged open and the cook—holding a bucket of water to be dumped—stepped out right next to where he was standing.

  “What are you doing back here?” she demanded.

  Story heroes are always quick thinkers and glib with making up believable and diverting excuses.

  Telmund said, “Ahmmm …”

  “Did you get lost between the lodge and here?” The question was spoken in pointed jest, as the distance was less than a hundred yards, with a clear line of sight.

  Telmund said, “Ahmmm …”

  The cook sighed. “You one of the new boys the steward hired on?”

  Telmund nodded energetically.

  “Not very big in the brains category, are you?”

  Telmund said, “Ahmmm …”

  The cook emptied the water onto the grass, then handed him the bucket. “Smart enough to fill this?”

  Telmund was about to say Ahmmm … , but the cook took him by the shoulders, turned him around so that he was facing the well, and gave him a little shove, maybe to encourage him, or maybe she had so little confidence in him she wanted to make sure he started off in the right direction.

  Filling a bucket might be the work of a servant, not a hero, but Telmund did as he’d been told. Without too much difficulty.

  By the time he was finished, the cook had gone back into the kitchen, so Telmund followed her inside, where he found her busy beating some eggs to a froth in a bowl.

  He cleared his throat,
but nobody looked up.

  The two assistants had stopped their bickering and were adding logs to one of the fires, which was really a scullery maid’s duty. The scullery maid, Telmund could see from this new angle, was not really hunched over but was crouched beside a cat. She was, in fact, talking earnestly to the cat. The cat was cleaning its paw.

  Telmund took a closer look. Despite the servant-girl clothing, and even though her hair hung straight and scraggly, having been wet in the river, then never combed out, once Telmund could see her face, he recognized Princess Amelia.

  He asked, louder than he needed to in order to get Amelia’s attention off the cat, “Where should I put this bucket?”

  “On the counter,” the cook said without looking up.

  But the important thing was that Princess Amelia looked up. Then she looked at the cat. Then she looked at Telmund again. Then she looked at the cat, who yawned and curled up to sleep. Amelia sighed.

  She stood and took a step toward him, but Telmund held his hand up in warning for her to stay.

  Telmund put the bucket down, then announced, “The prince said to fetch … her.” Had Prince Sheridan informed the kitchen staff who the girl he’d left with them really was? He must have, otherwise they’d have set her to work. But then why was she dressed like a maid?

  The cook set aside the bowl with the eggs and looked at Amelia. “Are your clothes dried yet, honey?” she asked.

  Telmund finally noticed the pile of what-had-once-been finery that was placed close to the fire’s warmth.

  Amelia prodded it. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Take ’em into the pantry and change there,” the cook instructed. “Can you get dressed by yourself?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Amelia asked.

  The cook shrugged. “Some of the fine ladies who come need their maids. But they bring their own. As well as proper gowns in case they tire of one or need to change. There’s some up at the castle as could help you, but here you’d have to settle for Ita.”

  The assistant who must have been Ita started to wipe her hands on her apron.

  “I’m fine,” Amelia assured them. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  “And you,” the cook said to Telmund as Amelia stepped into the privacy of the pantry, “you tell His Royal Highness that’s no way to treat a princess, setting her down in the kitchen to dry just because he thought the day was too warm to put in a fire at the big house. You tell him princesses are delicate.”

  Telmund nodded, though he was becoming less and less convinced about how delicate Amelia was.

  The cook sighed. “Never mind,” she grumbled. “You’d only get in trouble for speaking out.”

  Telmund nodded again.

  The cook sighed—this time at him, not the injustice of the world—and returned to her work.

  It took Amelia more than a few moments, during which time other serving boys came and went, but when Amelia stepped out of the pantry, she looked more like her old self.

  “God go with you, honey,” the cook told her.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said, “for all your kindness.”

  Then she and Telmund stepped out into the night.

  “I thought the cat was you,” Amelia whispered to him.

  “Ahm …” Telmund whispered back. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Mentally, he kicked himself for being a lackwit. Glib, he reminded himself. Diverting.

  Amelia tipped her face up to the sky.

  Telmund wondered if she was savoring her freedom, or checking to see if it was likely to rain. He glanced up and saw stars twinkling in a cloudless dark blue.

  She must be savoring her freedom, because she was still looking.

  Continuing to speak in a hushed tone, he warned, “We should get moving.”

  She followed him to the edge of the clearing on which the lodge was built before she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Uhm,” Telmund said, “away from Prince Sheridan.”

  “Short term, yes,” Amelia said. “Long term?”

  Who talked like that? “I thought you said we should go to Fairhaven, to seek help from King Humphrey.”

  “That was while we were by the river. I’m not sure I could find my way there from deep within these woods—at least, not at night. You?”

  Telmund suspected she was not being sarcastic but was really asking. “No,” he admitted.

  “Did you leave markers on the trail to be able to make our way back to where we left the river?”

  And that was something Telmund recognized that many a hero of a story was likely to do.

  He shook his head, which she might or might not have been able to see in the dark. If not, she took his silence correctly.

  “Well,” she said, “I do think that I can get us back to Pastonia from here.”

  “From here?” he repeated doubtfully.

  “Yes,” she said. “By the stars. I noted them as we left the lodge.”

  Oh. That was what she’d been doing, looking up at the sky—not daydreaming. He knew seafarers used the stars, but he wasn’t sure exactly how.

  Before his brother Frederic had left home to get married and be ambassador to the fairy court, he used to point out the constellations to Telmund. There were stories to go with some of the stars, and Telmund liked the stories. He just wasn’t very good at recognizing the patterns in the night sky. When Frederic traced the outlines with his finger, the pictures were there. Otherwise, not.

  Now, even though the trees under which they stood hid the sky, Amelia pointed up past them to where she had seen some star she had recognized. “That’s where the polestar is, due north. So that means east, for Pastonia, would be …” She pointed which direction they should go.

  “Yes,” Telmund conceded, “fine. But we won’t be able to see the stars to keep our bearings once we’re surrounded by the trees.” “Keeping one’s bearings” was a phrase he’d heard in a nautical story.

  Amelia said, “True, but so long as the terrain doesn’t force us in directions we don’t want to go, and so long as Prince Sheridan and his men don’t come after us, we should be back home before nightfall tomorrow.”

  Did this princess know everything there was to know about every subject in the world? Telmund was simultaneously relieved, annoyed, impressed, and humiliated. “Those are two big so long as’s,” he said grumpily.

  Amelia glanced back over her shoulder.

  Telmund looked also—to make sure there was no one there.

  They could still see the lodge, its windows looking bright and merry. But no sign—not yet—of pursuit.

  For a long time Amelia and Telmund walked in silence, just in case Prince Sheridan really did send to the kitchen for her and her absence was noted.

  Also, the going was rough. The trees’ branches only occasionally let moonlight through, so a certain amount of concentration was needed to keep from falling or walking into something—including each other.

  Amelia found it exhilarating—though somewhat unnerving—to be putting to use lessons she’d learned while studying in the comfort of home and family. She’d always known these skills were important, vital even, but this was different. Having the responsibility of her and Telmund’s safety out in the real world, without any tutors to fall back on, without any books to be able to check her facts, without anyone to encourage her that she was on the right track—this was wearing. Her parents must feel this strain all the time, being responsible for an entire kingdom.

  But after a while, Amelia couldn’t take the silence any longer—not when she had so many questions that needed answering. “Tell me about the spell that turns you into different creatures,” she said. “Who put it on you?”

  “A witch,” Telmund muttered.

  Amelia suspected witches were mostly used in stories in order to encourage misbehaving children to behave. “Often,” she informed Telmund, “those who get accused of being witches are only eccentric or unlikable women.”

  “Well, t
hen,” Telmund said by way of correction, “if not a witch, then an eccentric and unlikable woman with magical powers.”

  It was no use arguing. Clearly, someone had put a spell on the young man.

  “But why?” Amelia asked.

  Telmund sighed. “It was the whole youngest-brother predicament.”

  Amelia considered. “Witches don’t like youngest brothers?” she asked.

  Even in the darkness, she could tell the look Telmund turned on her was startled. “On the contrary; they prefer youngest brothers.”

  Amelia didn’t bother to ask why. She only observed, “Which you are not.” She knew from her studies of the nearby kingdoms that King Leopold of Rosenmark had five sons. She didn’t remember all their names (Prince Leopold and Prince Baldwin were the oldest two, and the ones she was most likely to encounter or have dealings with), but she recalled that the youngest was quite young, under ten years old. So Telmund must be the next youngest. “Still,” she said, trying to work it out in her mind, “certainly witches can’t go around putting spells on all the people they meet who are not youngest sons—else we’d start running out of people.”

  Telmund stopped walking and just looked at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  He shook his head but resumed walking. “For all the reading you obviously do … ,” he started.

  “What?” she repeated. In her experience, sentences that started that way generally did not end well. “I’m trying to understand so that we can work this out together.”

  Telmund said, “Once there was a father who had three sons …”

  “Yes?” Amelia urged, once it became obvious Telmund planned to leave it at that.