A Most Charming Prince

One: A Prince with a Prophecy

A prince was born. Not just any prince, though. A prince was born to the queen and king of Maskulinia after 10 years of nail-biting, floor-pacing, and heads-shaking waiting of all the nobility and most of the citizens. If the king kicked the bucket before a son was born, his younger brother Higgle, the next in line, was currently composing drinking ballads, raking in cash from fixed poker games, and nestling in any bosom within his reach at the local tavern beneath a green haze of alcohol fumes.

But no. There was a jolly prince with rosy cheeks in the arms of his starry-eyed mother. The prince was perfect in every way. The hint of a square chin, a proud nose (but not too prominent), shoulders already straining at his swaddling blanket, unusually muscular arms and legs, a magnificent brow and strong, firm lips.

"He will make an excellent king," his father said. "I'll commission his crown this afternoon."

"He will be the most handsome of knights," sighed the queen. "I'll commission a painter as soon as I can stand up again."

His grandmother, the honorable Marquess of VanSchlopti, squinted at the sleeping babe. "With those looks, he'll probably take after his uncle Higgle, rolling in every haystack from here to the mountains." Saintly lady that she was, she had never understood her younger son's appeal. Her older son was her pride and joy. The king was too shy to visit his wife's chambers at night without a stiff (and stiffening) glass of whiskey first, and then he required a rousing pep talk from his closest counselors, and a brace of guards to escort him to the queen's chambers. It was customary (and necessary) for the guards to lock him in to keep him from bolting before the loving deed could be done.

All the hard work had paid off, though. The baby cooed at his grandmother and yawned.

"Take after your brother Higgle?" the queen asked her husband, alarmed. "Do you think it's possible?"

"Surely not my son. Why there are strict rules for the oldest prince and what not." At least, he seemed to remember his tutors laying rules on him like piles of blankets in the middle of winter. A gaggle of illegitimate children was not what he imagined for his son. He would inherit the throne one day! He wouldn't have time for seducing every married woman in the kingdom, getting into riotous, drunken brawls, and singing bawdy songs in the theaters like his uncle Higgle.

The Marquess sniffed, frowning at her grandbabe from the end of her pointy nose. "With those shoulders, legs and especially that endowment, I fear the worst. He'll be into the salty wenches, before you know it."

"Well, what can we do?" asked the queen, clutching her innocent offspring to her soft bosom. "We can't lock him in a monastery and away from all the females of the world for his whole life, can we?"

"No, darling, of course not." The king petted her very slightly disarranged hair. It had been a trying morning for his wife. "Let us call for the soothsayer before we get ourselves in a panic for his future."

***

In the kingdom of Maskulinia, and indeed, among its many neighboring countries as well, it was customary to ask a soothsayer for a tea leaf reading of a babe's future shortly after it was born. This was often a grand occasion for the family to gather round the newcomer and give gifts, drink tiny glasses of eau-de-vie, and generally gossip about all the black sheep of the family. For royalty, the fortune telling was more ceremonial than accurate, but no one really paid attention to anything the grey-haired hags said, so long as it sounded appropriately consequential.

At noon, the king, the entire court and quite a few bystanders who were able to crash the party crowded into the queen's royal chamber for the soothsayer's prediction.

Remember, accuracy in telling the babe's future was not nearly as important as showmanship, which explains how: William the Weak-Willed was supposed to win many great battles, Michael the Maladroit should have turned out to be a skilled swordsman, and Robert the Redundant had been predicted as a conqueror of many far off lands (but instead got lost one evening on the way to the loo and fell off the battlements to his death in the turnip gardens outside the castle walls).

However, this particular fortune teller was an old hand at showmanship during her tea leaf séances, as well as at making vague and enigmatic predictions that were almost impossible to get wrong. She had foreseen the futures of legions of babies, all of which were basically right.

For the hero of our story, the reading began the same as for all these other babes. While he screamed bloody murder for a breast to nurse, the soothsayer sloshed the last spoonful of tea and soggy leaves in the bottom of a bone-white cup.

She frowned and muttered to herself long enough to build up the tension as thick as elderflower syrop flavored sponge cake and the visitors were just as anxious to hear her predictions as they would be to eat such a cake, if there were one.

The prince howled, growing even redder in the face. The old woman clucked at her cup as if communing with a chicken, and she waved a stick that she'd found in the forest on her way there over the goopy leaves. She gasped.

With a mighty cry, the babe broke free of his blanket. Then, a gust of wind rushed through the queen's chamber, extinguishing candles, knocking off hats and wigs, banging doors and whistling around the bedposts.

The soothsayer turned as puce and limp as the tea leaves. There was nothing for it—the king and queen would have to be prepared. She was going to have to tell the truth for a change.

She cleared her throat, hacking up a wad of phlegm. So much for showmanship.

"I foresee a great destiny for the prince," she intoned.

"Oh, how nice! I'll commission a fancier crown," the king said.

"He will grow straight, tall, and mighty as an oak. His massive size will be the stuff of legends. His beauty will cause flowers to bloom and knees to wobble," she continued.

"Wonderful! I'll commission an extra painting," said the queen.

"Indeed, he shall be so wondrous to behold that the underclothes of maidens and worldly vixens alike shall spontaneously combust at his approach." And this was where things started getting tricky.

"Whoa...wait a minute," said the king.

"Combust? You mean ladies' panties will burst into flames when he walks around?" asked the queen.

"His destiny," cried the soothsayer, who was going straight to the Tavern of the Beardless Goat the second this was all over, "will be that on the eve of his 24th birthday, he shall marry a frog, cause the kingdom to be plunged into war, and also fulfill the wildest dreams of every woman in the nearby land of Darndiddle when he goes to the House of Il Répoute deep in the Slagoth Woods."

"Wow. That's incredibly detailed," whispered the records keeper as he laboriously preserved her fortune telling for prosperity. "This prophecy has the most girth of any I've ever seen."

The entire room heard him, though. Even the prince had gone deathly quiet, smothered in the breasts of his wetnurse.

"Darling," the queen said. "In light of this prophesy, may I suggest you write to your cousin at the Alte Monastery? I think he will have a babe to raise and keep until he is twenty-five."

*** A prince destined to have a humongous ... destiny? Sounds interesting.  Hit the star if you enjoyed reading, and continue! ***