Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  This Lord William smiled even more broadly and offered the Prince an arm to brace against, which Charming of course refused. “Yes, um, Your . . . Royal Maj—­ I mean . . .”

  “Your Highness,” Lady Elizabeth whispered from behind Charming.

  Will blushed and said, “Your Highness, forgive me, but it looks like you tried to shave with a badger.”

  What were they talking about? He was Prince Charming. The Prince looked around and caught his reflection in the shining chest plate of one of the suits of armor. It was a horror. His face was a mass of black-­and-­blue bruises, a large unprincely knot had erupted just above his forehead, and dried blood sketched brown-­red trails from the disheveled mess of his hair to his jaw.

  His handsome face was gone. This was all a plot, Rapunzel, the tree, Elizabeth, William, all meant to ruin and disgrace him before his subjects. Never had he felt such rage. He reached for his sword, but it was not at his side. He looked up to the dais and then to the suit of armor standing at his side. The mailed glove on the suit clasped a sword. He charged the armor, leapt onto the raised pedestal that held it, and grabbing the hilt of the weapon, wrenched it free.

  A clamor of voices filled the Great Hall, a woman screamed, and he looked back at Lord William. He stepped down from the pedestal and pointed the sword at the man’s chest. “Now, William, I shall give you the salute you deserve.”

  “No! Don’t—­” came the voice of Lady Elizabeth, who was rushing between them, arms outraised. He saw her look of terror, and a cold chill shot through his body. Then, for reasons unknown, he hesitated.

  In all his years, Prince Charming had learned many things, studied with the finest tutors in literature, learned multiple languages, mastered the skill of song and verse, accomplished himself as a fine swordsman and rider, developed an understanding of the intricacies of siege warfare, and memorized the diplomatic etiquette necessary for hundreds of courtly encounters. Yet he had never spent time studying how the many suits of empty armor throughout the castle stayed upright, or even how they were supported in the slightest. What any of the castle’s many servants, who had the onerous task of cleaning and polishing them, would have told him is that without the sword to balance the weight of the plate armor, the suit would collapse. And, true to this inescapable physics, the suit of armor behind the Prince swayed—­and as the echo of the word deserve was fading from the heights of the vaulted arch of the ceiling, the armor gave way, crashing down weightily from the pedestal where it had stood onto the Prince’s already battered body.

  There was a shock of pain as the armor struck, followed by the loud clang of metal on stone. These initial insults to his person were followed by a sense of stopping, very suddenly, as his head bounced off the marble floor. In that final instant before everything went dark, Prince Charming knew that somehow nothing would ever be quite the same again.

  Chapter 5

  A Timely Stitch

  WORD SPREAD FROM peasant to prince, manor house to tavern, village to hamlet, in the gossip of the women and the songs of the minstrels, from one end of the kingdom to the other—­the dragon was dead. And with these happy tidings the ­people were, for the first time in nearly a generation, at peace. Indeed, many of the most inveterate curmudgeons noted that good cheer had spread like a plague across the land. Peasants whistled like dwarves as they worked, merchants and tradesmen greeted their customers with smiles that bordered on the sincere, and the nobles took to dispensing alms even when not under the prejudicial eye of the clergy. Festivals and feasts, large and small, were held on the greens and commons of every township. Even in Prosper, the townsfolk forgot their lost chance at collective glory and embraced a more lucrative trade: tourism. The eyes of all, though, were now on Castle White, for the King had announced a Royal Ball, the first in many, many years, to celebrate the kingdom’s new hero, Protector of the Realm and Dragon Slayer, Lord William Pickett.

  And on that night, the castle shone with a splendor unmatched in its long history. Every suit of armor, now anchored in place by order of the Prince, was polished to a gleaming brilliance. Every pennant atop the pinnacles of the tall towers snapped with the crispness of new linen. Every flagstone of every hall, the great and the small, had been scrubbed to a mirror finish. And every chandelier, candelabra, and lantern that could be found was lit until there was not a dark corner anywhere in the vastness of the hold and the night seemed utterly vanquished. In his Royal Chamber, Prince Charming stood in front of a full-­length mirror, critically examining his costume, a sublime green doublet and matching demi-­cape. He trusted the Royal Tailor implicitly, and considered him the only man in the kingdom worthy to discuss important matters of fashion. In some ways, the Royal Tailor was as close to a friend as the Prince had, but the traitor had abandoned him tonight to attend to William Pickett. Charming felt his absence keenly. Everything had changed since the Picketts had arrived, and for the worse.

  Just this morning, as the Prince was regaling the Duchess of North Northingham with a story about his hunting exploits, and casually admiring her substantial bosom, he had noticed Lady Elizabeth standing behind him. The surprise at seeing her so close at hand made him fumble badly with his introductions; and by the time he recovered, the ladies were tittering at him in a most undignified manner. To make matters worse, the duchess and Lady Elizabeth fell into a highly unorthodox conversation about the barbarity of fox hunting (of all things!) and he found himself being dismissed like a pageboy. He flushed again at the memory, and stood looking at himself in the glass, bemused at the magical way Lady Elizabeth had of bewitching and embarrassing at the same time.

  A light knock at his door interrupted his attempted reimagining of that conversation in which he was equal parts suave and witty. The Prince realized it was probably one of the many women of the court wishing to gain early entry into his graces. It was inevitable really. Why deny a lady such a pleasure? He prepared himself for ­couplet, raised his arm, and, with special emphasis on being charming, gave his best “Come.”

  To his surprise, his father opened the door. His Royal Majesty had adorned himself in his finest blues and golds, touches of purple accents, and a cape of finest sable. The older man raised his hand for quiet as though hushing a crowd, which was odd, as they were alone, then gently shut the door behind him. In a manner more befitting a gossipy serving maid than the Lord of the Land, he smiled broadly and laughed as he clapped his son on both shoulders. The Prince noticed that his father, the King, appeared years younger and seemed happier than he had ever been. In fact, his manner was so out of character that it left Charming momentarily speechless. Since Charming’s youth, his father, the King, (whom he could never think of without His Royal title) had always been so stern and exacting with him. The sudden realization that it was likely the dragon’s death that had made his father, the King, so happy cut Charming in a way that he did not fully understand or wish to explore. He was trying to come to grips with this new version of his father, the King, when awareness struck again that he had missed quite a bit of the speech and that his father, the King, had reverted to his more familiar, if not more comforting, regal self.

  “ . . . I’m sorry, but you do understand, don’t you, my son? I had no choice in the matter. I have always had to hold you to the highest standards, to present you as the model of honor. While I understand that the incident with Lord William at the court wasn’t entirely your fault, it was certainly a grave breach of protocol. ­Couple that with the fact that your behavior of late has been, well, let us say, frivolous, and the fact is I was facing open revolt from the court if I had not conceded the point.”

  He was not sure how to respond, so Charming merely said, “I know full well that the dragon is dead.” His diplomacy tutor would have been pleased with his response.

  “Exactly, and as Lord William was the slayer of the dragon, certain considerations must be made. I just wanted you to be forewarned so you could prepare yoursel
f.”

  The King, his father, leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I’ll make the announcement at the ball tonight. You must be ready. The whole court will be measuring you against Lord William. If he is seen as the better man—­”

  “Impossible,” Charming blurted. He was not sure what the King, his father, was talking about, but the mere idea that the Pickett could ever be considered his equal was absurd.

  The King frowned briefly at this, but then smoothed his expression. “That’s my lad, always up to a challenge. Now, I want your word that you will treat Lord William as befits a true hero of the realm. You know, I think the two of you could become good friends. The Pickett family history, after all, is quite remarkable . . .”

  The Prince stopped listening again. An idea had formed in his head, an idea worthy of his political acumen. If he were Will’s best friend, then he would be close to the man, better able to manipulate, control, and ultimately reveal him as the failure and the fraud that he was. In the middle of this scheming, he realized that his father, the King, was quietly staring at him, awaiting a response. “Yes, Father, I quite agree. I was rash and not in my right mind when I first met”—­he paused, then forced the name from his lips—­“Lord William. I had suffered a rather nasty fall that day and certainly owe him an explanation and my royal apology.”

  His father, the King, nodded and patted his shoulders again, “I am pleased that you have taken this so well. I know that it cannot be easy, and I am proud of you, son.”

  “Thank you, Father. With your leave, I shall see about Lord William and make certain that he is well prepared for the ball.”

  The King waved with a flourish and flowed through the door and down the hall with a jaunty step, which Charming found unseemly.

  LORD WILLIAM PICKETT, Dragon Slayer and newly minted Protector of the Kingdom, had never felt this out of place and uncomfortable. He had been standing for three hours while an army of men pricked him with pins, measured every inch of his body, and rubbed him with oils of such sweetness that he felt nauseous. Of course his sister had told him stories about being in the court, which had been told to her by their mother and father, but the reality was more horrifying than could be imagined. He had never dreamed that nobles could be so peculiar.

  “Why are you so tall?” asked the Royal Tailor for the fifth time that night, “And please stop slouching. You’re making this much more difficult than it should be.”

  Turning slightly, Will mumbled a halfhearted apology and, in doing so, was rewarded by a half-­dozen miniature stab wounds from the pinned-­together suit—­and then, without a knock, the door flung open, the tailors gasped and stood back, and Prince Charming entered with a flourish. The man tried to strike a pose, but the door rebounded and hit his side with a loud thunk. Will couldn’t fully suppress a chuckle. The Prince flushed red and, teeth clenched in a frighteningly insincere smile, advanced toward him. The man was wearing a complicated green outfit that was alarmingly tight in the crotch. He waved his arms at the tailors as though shooing flies.

  “You are all dismissed, I have need to confer with the—­the Lord Protector for a moment.”

  Despite the orders, the tailors, transfixed by the developing tableau, did not stir. The Prince gave them not a second’s more consideration as he turned his full attention on Will, who, with a start, realized that the Prince was examining him much like he himself might examine a buck before loosing an arrow. When the Prince spoke, the tone was strange—­not quite condescending but something similar.

  “I’m afraid I must have made a terrible impression on you when we first met. I want to”—­ the Prince’s voice trailed off as he adjusted the collar of his tunic—­“apologize.” The Prince offered his hand.

  Will extended his in return, but the Prince was already now busily removing an invisible speck from the cuff of his sleeve. Once again words failed Will and all he managed was a lame, “That’s all right. I’m sure it happens to all of us now and then.”

  The Prince smiled, but it was a thin smile, the kind of smile that on his sister’s face would have made Will’s mouth go dry. “Yes, well, we really should be friends. What other man in all the realm is more worthy of sharing my company than a dragon slayer?”

  “Well . . . um . . . Prin—­ I mean, Your Highness, that would be fine. I’m sure it would be nice to have someone that could show me the ropes, so to speak. I really do find all this”—­he gestured helplessly at his half-­finished outfit—­“a bit much.”

  “My good Lord Protector, may I call you Will? It would be better if I could call you Will, if we are to be friends.

  “Well, that would be fine . . . um, Edw . . . I mean, Your Roy . . . well . . .”

  The Prince laughed. “Call me Charming. All my friends do.”

  Will was puzzled because this was what everyone called the Prince, friend or no, but since the Prince seemed perfectly at ease with this resolution, Will just nodded mutely.

  This seemed to satisfy the Prince, because his smile dropped and he turned to the tailors, still gathered in rapt attention at the spectacle of the two men talking. With a flush of irritation, he snapped, “Well, finish dressing this . . . hero. We have a ball to attend! Will,” he said, turning back again, “I will await you in the hallway.”

  As soon as the door closed behind the Prince, the tailors sprang at Will like a swarm of demented bees, hurrying to finish his clothing with little regard for their subject’s safety until, with all the pricks he suffered, Will wondered if the beaded red dragon woven onto the front of his tunic was actually decorated with drops of his own blood.

  When they finished, the weight of the outfit, and its tight fit, made him feel terribly uncomfortable. Not for the first time since he’d arrived in the castle, Will found himself longing for the fields he had cursed for so many years. As promised, the Prince was waiting for him outside and gave him a thorough look-­over, almost like he was buying a horse. Will could not help but feel self-­conscious and bit his lip.

  “No need for that,” suggested the Prince, “they put enough color on you. You were trying to redden your lips there, weren’t you?”

  Will shrugged, confused. He didn’t want to say anything that might sound dumb, but he was alarmed. Had someone painted his lips without his noticing? He kept surreptitiously wiping his face on the back of his sleeve to see if it was true.

  The Prince shrugged. “You’ll do. Follow me, friend. We will make our entrance together—­ and how the women will swoon!”

  Will raised a finger, ready to ask if that was the reaction they were looking for, but the Prince was already off, striding forward without a backward glance to see if Will was following. Will tried to figure out where they were going, but every passage looked the same to him and he soon felt lost. Finally, they rounded a corner into another of the endless and rather overly ornate halls and came onto a balcony overlooking a vast space. Below him, the Grand Ballroom was a swirling kaleidoscope of color, sound, and smell that overwhelmed the senses. Silks and rich velvets draped the chamber from its peak down to the furthermost corner. Chandeliers rose toward the heights of the ceiling, giving the impression of stars blazing above. Flowers of every description and color were arrayed about the room—­on the tables, woven about the columns, scattered across the entryway. The nobles and honored guests themselves added to the spectacle, each one decked out in the finest of their finery. As they moved, the gleaming marble floor mirrored the dancers and guests until it seemed like there were two balls, one above the floor and one beneath.

  The scene struck Will dumb. And he realized that he was standing there, eyes wide and mouth agape, like some know-­nothing hayseed. Common sense told him to watch what Charming was doing; but when he did, he was surprised to see the Prince also staring in amazement—­not at the entire room but at a point somewhere near where the thrones were set. He followed the man’s eyes and saw Liz dressed in
a formal ball gown.

  For a heartbeat, he thought that Charming was looking at his sister, but then noticed that, just past her, was Princess Gwendolyn talking to the King. It must have been the Princess who amazed Charming. She had been locked in her rooms since arriving at the castle, and Will thought she must have spent the whole time getting ready for this evening. None of the fine ladies, in all their dazzling gowns, could match the peerless beauty of the Princess. Her dress was a complicated arrangement of silver and gold layers that served as a perfect complement to her fair skin and those crystalline blue eyes. There were also obviously some supports in the dress because her, well . . . they were displayed in a stunning, not immodest, manner. He sighed in admiration.

  “She is a vision . . .” uttered Charming, letting his words trail away.

  “Yes, the Princess is prett—­beautiful,” said Will.

  Charming blinked and shook his head slightly. “Who? Yes . . . yes, the Princess. The Princess is beautiful. Indeed, she is. Yes, of course, that is inarguable.”

  “Um, Charming, will we have to dance?” Will asked.

  The Prince looked at Will. “What? Oh, of course we dance, Will. The ladies await our presence. You’ll learn these things.”

  The Prince straightened his coat and ran a practiced hand through his hair. How he did that without mussing it up was a mystery to Will, who himself would have wound up with little more than a tangle had he made the same attempt. Will looked at the Prince and then out at all the gathered nobility, and felt a flutter of guilt in his stomach. It had been building all day, but he could not ignore it any longer.

  This is wrong, Will thought. Everyone is here to honor you for slaying the dragon, but it was an accident! The scarecrow is more a hero than you are. You don’t deserve this.