Someday my Prince: A fairy tale

By William Stafford

The inept evil sorcerer Diabolos plots to usurp the throne of Meritania but finds his schemes foiled at every turn by handsome window cleaner Nick. Will Diabolos be able to seize the throne? Will selfish brat Princess Alisande ever grow up? What is the secret of Nick's past? Where is your fairy godmother when you need her? And how will the kingdom cope with the destructive enemy headed its way? A romantic fairy tale adventure with a wry sense of humour, "Someday, My Prince" is a modern bedtime story for anyone who enjoys Disney movies and pantomimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: May 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781781662137

Book preview

men

Someday, My Prince

Cora Threadneedle raised her arm once more and rapped the door with her knuckles for the - well, she had lost count of how many times. She had performed this particular onerous task every morning since her arrival at the castle several years ago, and as the Princess had entered her teenage years, the job of getting her up and ready to face the day had become increasingly difficult to the extent that it was now bordering on the impossible.

The impossible is what I do best, Cora sighed inwardly. She could feel the stiffness of the wand tucked into her sleeve and was sorely tempted to whip it out and – and what, exactly? Cast an enchantment that would give the Princess an infallible internal alarm clock? Materialise a trebuchet under the Royal bed, to catapult the lazy tyke towards the wardrobe where bewitched outfits would insinuate themselves onto her body while a bucket of water emptied itself over her head...

Cora sighed, outwardly and audibly this time. She was not going to take the risk just because the heir to the kingdom was too bloody lazy to get out of bed in the morning. No matter how tired Cora was of her thankless duties as a waiting gentlewoman, there were others dependant on her presence, matters of great import she needed to husband.... Bumwads! she muttered, uncharacteristically. She raised her wand arm and knocked again.

She even said Coo-ee!

***

A couple of leagues from the castle, deep in the forest, a muscular young man was swinging an axe. He was shirtless but the chill of the morning meant nothing to him. He was visibly steaming from his exertions. He paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.

The truth be told, Nick was glad of the physical labour. Not only had it transformed the weedy stream of piddle he had been at eleven to the strapping wall of pectorals and biceps he was now ten years later, but it also gave him time to reflect. The repetitive, mechanical nature of chopping firewood meant that Nick’s mind could wander and indeed, wonder, at the nature of things, at the change in circumstances and what circumstances might be necessary to bring about more change... So rapt in his thoughts was he, he failed to notice the heap of shawls and walking-sticks that was ambling towards him. Nick raised his axe high and the pile of laundry cleared its throat, putting him off his downward stroke.

Grandfather! What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?

Several shawls shrugged. A nose, a chin, and a bright pair of eyes emerged, and Nick’s grandfather Vince, pointed a finger like a twig at the chopping block.

Haven’t you finished chopping that firewood yet? he asked, in a voice as dry as tinder. Nick made an expansive gesture that took in the block, the axe, the mound of logs yet to be chopped and the neat piles of bundles that was almost as tall as he was. Vince seemed unimpressed. Get a move on, he grumbled. That axe won’t work by itself.

I wish it would, Nick sighed, choosing not to point out that his grandfather’s interruption wasn’t exactly an aid to productivity. Then I could –

Vince cut off his grandson’s thought before he could give it voice. Then you could waste your time daydreaming about things that can never be.

But I shouldn’t have to – we shouldn’t have to live like this! Have you forgotten who we are?

I may be old and decrepit but I could never forget who we were. The old and decrepit man patted Nick’s forearm. We must live with what we have and be glad to be living at all. I’ll go in and make broth. You get back to work. You know we need that firewood to get by.

Yes, grandfather.

Chop, chop! The old man chuckled at the joke that was as old as he was and shuffled back to their cottage. Nick rolled his eyes and raised the axe but yet again, Grandfather Vince interrupted his rhythm. He had shuffled back towards the block and was in danger of being sliced in half.

Don’t forget to chop some for the butcher, he waggled his gnarled finger at the boy.

No, grandfather.

Then there’s the baker...

Yes, grandfather.

The tambourine maker...

Oh, grandfather, all these people! We should be making cutbacks. Do we really need so many tambourines?

The old man clucked. Small local businesses should support each other. Now, who else is there? The...um...the..oh, I’ve forgotten. Muttering to himself, Vince shuffled away again.

Grandfather! Nick called after him, I’ve told you time and again to make a chopping list!

Bah, the old man bleated, but deep within his many layers of shawl, he smiled. The boy still has his sense of humour – even if the jokes are as poor as we are!

Vince waddled back to the cottage, the cottage he considered them lucky to have, and Nick, shaking his head, swung his axe again.

***

The village market place, nestling in the shadow of the castle walls, was not the thriving centre of commerce it had once been. There were very few stalls open for business and most of those were barren of goods. The butcher’s hook swung empty in the breeze. A solitary bone lay on a tray lined with dead grass. The butcher himself cleaned and sharpened his cleaver, his eyes constantly on the lookout for custom or indeed, some stray beast to dismember. The baker had only a few dry and curling crusts to offer. He tossed pinches of breadcrumbs for any birds that might happen to be passing, but even they were keeping away. Time was he could trap four-and-twenty of the feathered fiends and make them into a pie fit for the King himself, but those days were perhaps gone for good.

In contrast, the stall belonging to the tambourine maker was groaning under the weight of his wares. People were giving his stall the widest berth, swerving their steps and avoiding eye contact as if he was handing out religious pamphlets. The tambourine maker sighed, drumming his fingers on one of his instruments – until the butcher and baker threw clods of muck at him to make him stop.

There was one stall, however, that was attracting a lot of, if not all of the business in the marketplace that morning. Beneath a gaudy banner that proclaimed it to be Crazy Gordo’s House of Pumpkins, a small, almost spherical fellow not unlike a pumpkin himself, was doing a roaring trade. People seemed happy to overlook his dirty face and slimy hair, blinded perhaps by the bright orange and green clothes he was sporting. His pumpkin costume was pristine, practically screaming jollity, and was obviously doing the trick.

There you go, folks! he grinned, revealing his black and uneven teeth as he handed over a pumpkin to a delighted couple before relieving them of a couple of coins. Happy eatin’!

He waved them away and puffed out his dirty cheeks, glad for the lull in transactions. But Gordo was not permitted much of the rest he craved. A tall, spindly figure in black robes trimmed with red, emerged from the curtain at the back of the stall. A scented, black handkerchief was held to his face causing Gordo to frown. Not the brightest pumpkin in the patch, it took Gordo some time to recognise his employer and master, the dark sorcerer, Diabolos.

So, Gordo, the self-proclaimed master of dark magic’s deep voice matched the sneer that seemed permanently etched on his sharp features, how is the pumpkin trade on this vile and sunny morning?

Hello, boss! Gordo beamed, affording Diabolos a gust of foul breath the scented hanky couldn’t quite fend off. Where did you spring from?

From over by the - Oh, where does it matter where I sprang from? My activities are not your concern.

Gordo frowned as he processed his patron’s words. But I thought you asked me to mind your business.

Fool! I meant this business. Not my business.

Isn’t this your business?

Yes, this is my business? So how’s it going?

None of my business.

Diabolos sighed. He wondered, not for the first time, why he seemed doomed to employ the dredges of humanity to assist with his nefarious purposes. It stood to reason, he supposed. Any evildoer of merit would have their own Machiavellian ends to pursue, their own tortuous schemes to engineer. They rose to the top like cream, leaving for henchmen, sidekicks and subordinates, only the clots.

You know, Gordo, he swatted at the bumpkin in the pumpkin suit with his hanky, you are indubitably the most irritating of all the twerps it has been my misfortune to employ. Gordo flinched but was giggling so Diabolos seized him by the throat. Tell me, you malodorous, maggot-minded moron, How Is My Pumpkin Stand Doing?

Oh, that! Gordo made a dismissive gesture. That’s fine.

And they’re selling well, are they?

What are?

The pumpkins!

Oh yes, boss. Like hot cakes.

Oh, really? Diabolos took Gordo’s fat face in his hand and turned it towards the nearby hot cakes stand. It was derelict and deserted, strewn with cobwebs and staffed by a skeleton. Gordo shrugged. Diabolos gave his pudgy cheeks a patronising slap. You’ll have to do better than that. I want all this merchandise shifted today. I’m expecting another shipment tomorrow. These pumpkins are my passport to the throne, Gordo. That’s what they are.

Yeah, Gordo nodded sympathetically. They give me the runs too.

Dolt!

But, boss, do you really think this evil scheme of yours is going to work?

Diabolos glanced around in panic, clapping a hand to his assistant’s mouth. Quiet, you fool! Do you want everyone to know our business? He peeled his hand away, sorry to have ruined another pair of gloves.

I thought that was the idea: It pays to advertise.

Numbskull! Diabolos tensed his hands as though to strangle something. You persist in peddling the pumpkins and let me worry about the evil scheme.

I just don’t think it’s very nice.

Well, that’s the thing about evil schemes, isn’t it? They’re not meant to be very nice. Oh, shut up – and before you say it, I don’t mean shut up shop. Just mind your own business – I mean, my business – I mean – Ohh!

In a melodramatic gesture, Diabolos flounced behind the curtain, leaving the bemused Gordo to rub his manhandled cheeks.

Ow, he said.

***

Cora Threadneedle was still outside the Princess’s door. Twenty minutes of polite and gentle knocking had failed, as they always did, to produce results. The next phase in the protocol was about to come into operation. Cora reached out and twisted the handle. She pushed the heavy, gilt-edged door into the room, just enough to admit her head.

Coo-ee, Your Highness? she called in a voice little more than a whisper. There on the four-poster, beneath bedding bedecked with embroidered ponies and bunny rabbits, was a lump rising and falling with the regular breath of sleep. Cora risked stepping into the room. She cast her eyes around the walls at the portraits of minstrels and troubadours and shook her head, but what really got her clucking in dismay was the trail of fine clothes strewn across the floor. She picked up garment after garment as she edged her way towards the window. Some people don’t deserve nice things, she considered. Some people don’t know how fortunate they are.

But what she said out loud, in a cajoling, sing-song voice, was, Your Highness! Oh, Your Highness! Time to rise and shine! Then, when this didn’t work she became more sardonic: Your Highness, it’s almost lunchtime. You should be thinking about having some breakfast.

She had reached the window. Dropping the clothes onto a nearby chair, Cora reached up and pulled the curtains apart in a single, dramatic movement. Sunlight poured into the room directly onto the bed. The lump beneath the blankets rolled over and emitted a groan. A pale arm threw back the covers to reveal the screwed-up but still pretty countenance of the Princess Alisande.

Bloody hell, she complained, defending her eyes against the onslaught of daylight. It’s the middle of the night, woman.

Come on, my dear – I mean, Your Highness, Cora maintained a professional sweet smile and held out a dressing gown of the finest silk. You have a rather busy schedule today.

The Princess groaned again and pulled a pillow over her face.

Young lady like you, frittering your days away asleep, it’s not natural. Why, when I was your age, I – well Cora cleared her throat, Never mind what I did when I was your age. The point is, when you get to my age you won’t be able to tell anyone what you did when you were your age because you will have slept through it all and missed it.

The Princess hurled the pillow in Cora’s general direction. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. All right, all right, I’m up, I’m up! Why do you have to keep fussing? No, leave that pillow where it is. I can never find anything after you’ve picked it up.

This room is part of the castle, Your Highness. You could try and keep it looking a bit Royal.

A pained expression swept across the Princess’s face before she held her head in her hands. All right, all right, I’ll see to it. I’ll have the Royal Bedroom Tidy-Upperers come in this afternoon. Just please stop fussing!

But Cora was implacable. Anyone who gets as much sleep as you do shouldn’t be this crabby. Look, here’s that ear-ring you were after last week.

Message received and understood! No, no! Don’t touch that! With an urgency that belied her apparent sleepiness, the Princess bounded out of bed and across the room but she was too late.

Well, well, looky here!

Give me that! The Princess tried to snatch the item in question but Cora was too quick for her and darted around to the other side of the bed.

Isn’t this one of your dancing shoes?

It might be.

Those new ones you had yesterday?

I can’t tell from here. Hand it over. The Princess reached across the bed but Cora stepped backwards. The Princess fell face down on the eiderdown. Cora strode around the room, holding up the tattered shoe like a barrister parading vital evidence.

Look at the thing! she invited the rest of the furniture. It’s ruined. Completely worn through and not twenty-four hours old!

I know, the Princess sighed from the bedclothes, They don’t make them like they used to.

Cora rounded on her, pointing the shoe like an accusing finger. Don’t give me that, my girl! she snapped. You’re up to something. I can tell. Something’s afoot.

Yes, the Princess jumped up, it’s on the end of my leg and I’d put it in my shoe if you’d hand it over.

It’s the fourth pair this week, Cora shook her head. It is difficult to maintain eye contact with someone bouncing on a bed. Your father would be displeased to hear of this.

The invocation of her father elicited a grunt from the Princess. She stopped bouncing and jumped to the floor. He doesn’t give a hoot what I do.

Oh, don’t say that –

Well, it’s true!

I’m sure His Majesty –

Well, where is he, Cora? Footling around who knows where, whooping it up.

Cora reached for the Princess’s hand but Alisande shook her off. Cora regretted mentioning the King. The effect on the Princess was always the same. She handed the girl her ruined shoe and offered a smile.

Far be it from me to deprive the shoemaker of some much-needed business.

Thank you, Cora.

Hmm... By which, Cora meant, There’s something going on, young lady, something you don’t want me to know about and that’s precisely why I should know about it and why I intend to find out.

But the Princess’s grin was inscrutable. Cora left her to get dressed, fully aware that Alisande was dancing around behind her, holding up the shoe like a tiny partner.

***

In the cottage fashioned from logs, bark and moss, old Vince sat by the fireplace, staring contemplatively at the grate. It occurred to him that lighting a fire might aid the thinking process but he was wary of the expense of such an indulgence. He pulled on yet another shawl but before he could really get lost in thought, knocking at the door almost startled him from his stool. He composed himself and his many shawls and clattered across the floor with his walking stick.

Nick? Is that you, Nick? he croaked, although it did occur to him that Nick would announce himself. This realisation served only to make his unsteady legs tremble all the more. He raised his stick as a weapon and almost fell over.

The knocking continued.

Who is it? Vince demanded. Only I’d – er- hate to set my gigantic hound on a stranger. He added a bark to this – well, more of a wheeze, really. Any interloper would think the guard dog was asthmatic.

Oh, open up, you silly old fool.

Vince recognised Cora’s voice and sighed in relief. He straightened up as much as he could and unfastened the bolt. Cora Threadneedle bustled in, removing the snood that had covered her head. Vince gave the world outside the cottage an anxious peek then shut and bolted the door to keep it out.

Oof, it’s blustery out there tonight, Cora complained, warming her backside by the fire before realising the grate was empty. Normally I’m worried about being set on by wolves when I head out this way. Tonight I’m afeared they’ll be blown away like kites, the poor critters.

I’ll make a fire, Vince offered but Cora dismissed this with a flick of her hand. He offered broth instead.

Don’t mind if I do! Cora eased herself into a chair by the table. Makes a nice change to have someone running around after me.

Vince ladled a helping of thin broth into a bowl and set it in front of his guest. I can’t promise to break into a gallop, not at my age. They both laughed the laughter of old friends, warmer than any fireplace. He handed her a spoon and watched her sample the broth. Wrap yourself around that – as we used to say in the old kingdom.

She paused, the spoon an inch from her lips, and looked into the eyes of her old friend, eyes that were as watery as the broth. They didn’t need to give voice to their memories to remind each other of the past they shared and the things they had lost.

These are difficult times, he declared and shuffled to the dresser to find himself a bowl.

All times are difficult, Cora added. That’s what history means.