The Song of the Prince

By George the Good

What impoverished young knight would duck a chance to win fame along with beautiful lady bringing rich lands with her hand in marriage? Prince George, that’s who. Stung by previous failures, he’d rather stay home in comfort, but finds himself struggling through forests, crossing deserts, and sailing seas to capture the Unicorn, find a fabled flower, and discover an “Unsung Song.” Accompanied by a headsman, a Seeker, and a wild boy, Prince George
battles beasts, Northmen, and bandit armies, not to mention witches, Gypsies, and a diabolical dragon-rider. Will the Prince win Dorinda of Darr? And what of his childhood playmate, Princess Julianna? Does she have plans for him too? Possibly. More of the Prince’s tale is continued in The Black Unicorn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663211125

George the Good

George Byers received a doctorate at Indiana University. He taught Shakespeare and children's literature at a small university in the hills of West Virginia. The Black Unicorn is the culmination of thirty years of writing that resulted in dozens of unicorn poems and stories about the Empire, plus two operas and four novels.

Book preview

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CHAPTER ONE

Ladies Bright and Fair

Dorinda of Darr was the most beautiful lady in the Empire. Everyone agreed on that, though certain Court ladies had doubts. Lady Janet of Ney whispered to her particular friends that her redheaded niece, Lady Patricia, showed more spark than cool Dorinda with her smooth, silvery locks. And Jessica, Chief Lady of Princess Julianna’s small retinue, argued that there was no comparison between her mistress’s dark eyes and sun-kissed complexion and Lady Dorinda’s icy orbs, not to mention her marble cheeks.

Dorinda’s pale, stiff, silent, Jessica murmured to Lady Katherine as they sat sewing an altar cloth beside the royal dais. Jessica took another stitch on an angel’s wing. Princess Julianna, now—

The Princess! cried Lady Katherine. Her wandering eye snapped back into focus. Nobody’s like the Princess, nobody! You talk brains! You talk beauty! Those dark curls! Of course, she should wear her hair to her waist as Her Majesty did.

It’ll grow back, said Jessica, shrugging.

Then she’ll get bored with it, snorted Lady Pru, another Court veteran. She’ll cut it off again.

That’s because Princess has spunk, declared Lady Katherine. "She’s lively and clever, not a stick-in-the-mud like Dorinda.

Lady Dorinda has quality. Lady Pru shook her long needle. She doesn’t give her mother fits. If only Princess would take Dorinda as her model and settle down— You have to admit, Kitty, that Dorinda behaves properly. She never talks of sieges and campaigns. She doesn’t desire to be a warrior queen. A warrior queen, I ask you!

Well, I like a lively gel, said Lady Katherine, nodding at the throne. I was lively myself. Look at Princess holding Court by herself, tonight. There’s not another gel in the Empire could do that! She’ll settle down when she’s older.

Jessica smiled at Lady Katherine. You’re still lively, Kitty.

Princess is sixteen, declared Lady Pru, reaching for the ruby thread. Old enough for a husband if Her Majesty would find her a Prince.

Husband! Now, it was Lady Katherine who snorted. I was married at fifteen! I wouldn’t wish that on a dog! What do you think, Jessica?

Jessica started outlining another feather in gray. She yawned. You know Princess won’t marry till she’s twenty. They won’t insist. Her Majesty will urge her to make up her mind, but the Emperor, he just wants his girl to stay around the castle and cheer him up.

I do admit, said Lady Pru, she is a pretty thing. Look at her there. She sits the Throne like she belongs there.

Everyone looked at Princess Julianna, perched on a pile of pillows at the Emperor’s throne, gesturing and talking to surrounding courtiers.

Prince George gazed, too, from the Knights’ bench in the corner of the Throne Room. A skinny boy with big hands and a lionskin over his shoulder, the Prince shook his head as the Princess kicked her skirt hem out.

There she sits, he scoffed, trying to act regal, hiding how excited she is. I’d never turn her loose if I were Empress. Princess shouldn’t be allowed to hold Court till she’s twenty-one at least. She’ll cause trouble. She always does.

Prince George turned his gaze to Lady Dorinda, attending Court this evening with her parents. All the other Knights looked at Dorinda. She sat primly on a gilt chair between the Duke of Darr and the Duchess.

Dorinda was lovely. She smiled on the young lords and knights circling to do her favors. They offered cakes from the sweets table, drinks from the cellar. They crooned to her in low voices and bragged about their exploits. If she stood, a dozen arms offered an escort. When the consort in the gallery struck up a song, the suitors begged for a dance.

Court gossip said that the Duke planned to pick a husband for Dorinda, already older than most brides. Any gentleman would jump at a chance to become heir to the mighty Duke of Darr. His Duchy covered a third of the Far North. It bordered the dark kingdom of Vile.

Prince George’s eyes swung back to Princess Julianna as she jumped from the throne, knocking a purple cushion to the floor. She ran toward him, smiling and waving. All the sober knights staggered upright while Prince George leaped up, waving back and grinning. Princess Julianna ignored him, skipping past to Sir Otley, who pushed heavily to his feet.

Time to dance, Uncle Ott! I told you I’d make you dance tonight!

Blushing, Prince George dropped his arm. He writhed with embarrassment, hoping that no one had noticed his wave. Everyone watched the Princess pulling on Sir Otley.

Oh, my lady, groaned the warrior, let an old man rest.

If you were an old man, I would, she laughed, pulling him out to the floor. I need a cavalier, tonight. Everyone’s dancing with Lady Dorinda. No one’s dancing with me!

I’d dance, thought Prince George, if she’d ask me.

The Princess soon had Sir Otley stumbling through an eight-couple carol. She flashed in and out of the circle while the knight hopped after, panting and laughing.

My lady, my lady, he gasped, pounding his chest. Let an old knight breathe. Why don’t you dance with Prince George? Poor boy watches you like a lamb that’s lost its ewe.

Princess Julianna glanced at Prince George. She caught him watching Dorinda.

I dance with lions, she declared, not lambs. One more turn, Uncle Ott, then you can rest.

The dance ending, Sir Otley escorted the Princess back to the throne. Puffing, he bent to pick up the purple cushion.

Thank you, my knight, she said with a curtsy.

Sir Otley bowed. My pleasure.

Now, called the Princess, Lady Jessica, it’s your turn to dance now. I shall receive petitions.

Jessica folded the fabric she was stitching. She jumped up and ran across the floor to Prince George. Pray, my lord, will you dance with me?

Prince George saw the Princess watching. He took a breath and straightened the lionskin over his shoulders. Surely, my lady, I’d be honored to dance with you.

He stepped out to the floor. Soon, he was lost in the dance, skipping and spinning through the couples with pretty Lady Jessica laughing at him as music and prattle filled the Great Hall.

Prince George had grown up with the Princess. Fifteen years ago, the boy and his father had washed up in the Empire after his wicked uncle seized the throne of Dacia, a far-off land beyond Greece. On hearing their story, the Emperor had granted them refuge. When the King died from his wounds, the Emperor permitted the Prince to live at Court as an authorized stray.

He took lessons with Princess Julianna, and with Jessica, too, when the Princess selected that girl as her companion. Though he was two years older than the Princess, she treated him as a brainless younger brother, a useful underling to be teased and ordered about for her amusement. In recent years, he’d seen her grow from a bossy tomboy, crazy about horses, to the sparkling young beauty now dazzling lords and ladies in Court.

One at a time, the barons, clergy, and City notables were stepping up to the throne to confront her. They all wanted their rights and deserts, as they saw them—Court positions, Church preferment, tax relief. With the Empress absent, the Princess was not permitted to grant anything substantial, so she did her best to quiet them with smiles and promises.

You can be sure, Lord Erne, I’ll tell Her Majesty, she told one sputtering baron. According to the map, that lake does appear to be yours. Please, though, don’t tear up Lord Prater’s fishing nets. Leave this case to Her Majesty. I’m sure that she’ll take it up in Council.

Lord Erne was followed by an overdressed lady dragging a dumpy daughter by the arm. They curtseyed deeply before the throne.

Lady Swan, cried the Princess, jumping down, where did you get that hat? It’s lovely. Her Majesty must see it! I hope you wear it next time you attend Court. She’ll be distressed that she didn’t see you tonight! She’s attending church, you know. An emergency baptism, Lady Fall’s granddaughter. The Empress is godmother.

The Princess ran behind Lady Swan to view the hat from the rear. Lady Swan beamed and bowed, forgetting for the moment that she was begging a husband for Charlotte, her youngest daughter. The Princess passed Lady Swan to Lady Pru and turned to Lord Gorp, who wanted the Bishop to send him a proper priest.

I won’t have it, my lady! I won’t have it! He shook a fist in the air. The Bishop dumps his rejects on Gorp! I want a priest who’ll visit the sick instead of the tavern, who’ll pray to saints instead of sluts. A priest that can read would be a start!

Prince George danced twice with Jessica before dropping back on the bench at the Knights’ table. He watched Lady Dorinda’s cool beauty as she smiled faintly at a knight or extended a hand to a lord. Suddenly, he was poked in the shoulder. It was Cedric, a page boy in a green suit with a mop of curls poking out under his hat.

The Princess requires your service, my lord.

Prince George swung his gaze to the Princess, now talking to Lord Spleen, a baron from the midlands. What does she want?

That’s for you to find out. The Page dropped a cheeky bow and scampered back to the dais.

Here we go, thought the Prince, jumping up. She’s making trouble.

Ducking the dancers, he rounded the line of favor-seekers to bow to the Princess at the dais. She ignored him as she questioned Lord Spleen. Exactly how many horses were stolen, my lord?

Eight, my lady, eight of ’em, declared the baron. Valuable beasts, two colts. All spotted, you know, black and white. I’m breeding spotted horses now.

And you’re sure it was Lazlo the Gypsy?

Lord Spleen threw up his hands. Who else? Gardens raided throughout the barony, peas picked, cabbages. And the brewhouse, whole barrels o’ beer disappeared! The villagers say that laundry’s stolen from the bushes, too, and a child. Six year old boy named Samuel. Who steals children but Gypsies?

Princess Julianna looked up at Prince George. She nodded at his bow. Prince, I have a job for you. Gather a squad of guards and ride over to Spleen. Gypsies are stealing horses. I want you to get them back.

Eight of ’em! Lord Spleen insisted. Spotted horses! Black and white. Two colts, two yearlings. It was Lazlo did it, Lazlo the Gypsy. String him up and bring me back my horses!

No, Baron no. The Princess shook a finger at him. You know, you can’t hang Gypsies. The Bishop’s forbidden it. When you find the horses, Prince George, whip the Gypsy and seize his wagons. Bring back all the stolen goods.

I’d rather see him dangle, muttered Lord Spleen.

Where did you last see the Gypsies, my lord? asked the Prince.

Why Spleen, of course! sputtered the Baron. He’s camped along Windy Brook, right outside the village. Get up there and bring me my horses!

Prince George hesitated. He took a breath, rubbing hands against his sword belt. Pardon, Princess, but did Her Majesty authorize this venture?

Her Majesty? Princess Julianna’s eyes flashed at the question. Of course, she didn’t authorize it. I ordered it! If you haven’t noticed, I occupy the throne tonight. Do you refuse my order, Prince?

Prince George turned red. I don’t refuse, Princess. I just wanted to confirm that it’s all right. You know what happened when you sent me to rescue the Biscuit Women.

The Princess glared at him. How was I to know they were on a pilgrimage? This time, there’s no mistake. You heard Lord Spleen himself.

Eight horses, Spleen repeated. Spotted beasts, valuable.

Prince George will get them for you, the Princess promised. You tell him about the Gypsies while I talk to Dame Alice.

The Baron grabbed Prince George’s arm and dragged him aside, bemoaning the Gypsies’ predations.

My chickens, too! I forgot my chickens. Every hen snatched from the coop and no one heard a squawk. And my onions pulled up by their roots. You won’t find a carrot or onion from Spleen to Mott. We’re livin’ on last year’s turnips!

Prince George scratched his ear. And you’re sure it was Gypsies, my Lord?

Who else? Lord Spleen clutched his hat. Lazlo and his bunch, they straggled into Spleen Village two weeks ago with their carts. Beggin’ for work. Oh, yes, they’d said, they’d fix pots, heal sick horses. Cheap, that’s what they said. Aye, cheap it was. They carried off everything not pegged down! If I was Emperor, I’d sell ’em to the Turk. Get some return from ’em. Where’s the Empress, anyway? What’s the Princess doin’ holdin’ Court? She’s just a girl.

Prince George shrugged. Empress is at church tonight with the Emperor.

Oh, well, Lord Spleen muttered, staring around the room. Just so I get my horses back. He pointed across the hall.

Tell me, Prince, who’s that pale man over there glarin’ at everyone?

Prince George looked where the Baron was pointing. That one? That’s Prince Vile’s moneyman. We had a bad winter, you know. Taxes down. Emperor’s borrowing another thousand ounces for Court expenses.

Borrowing silver, is he? Lord Spleen shook his head. Well, Prince, you just round up those Gypsies. Won’t bother me if you hang the lot. Any good Gypsies did Jesus long ago, they’ve wiped it out a thousand times with their thievin’.

As Prince George left the hall, he looked back at Princess Julianna. She was dancing an eight-hand circle dance with Jessica and two lords, pulling them faster and faster. Lady Dorinda was back in her chair, yawning behind a blue silk handkerchief.

Prince George hurried upstairs to the Empress’s chamber to check his orders. The spearman at the door stopped him with a salute.

No luck tonight, me lord. Her Majesty’s back from church, but she’s down in bed. It’s her headache, they say.

Oh, headache. Prince George stood quietly a moment. Well, I’ll try her anyway.

He tapped on the door, which was carved around the top with vines and flowers. It swung open an inch. A lady’s bright eye peeped out.

Please, he whispered. I need to speak to the Empress.

Is that you, Prince? It was Lady Katherine. He knew her voice.

It’s me, he said. I have a question for Her Majesty. It won’t take a minute.

Let me see how she feels.

The door closed for a moment, then jerked open wider than before. This time it was Lady Pru. No admittance, Prince! Nobody sees Her Majesty tonight. She’s sick.

Tomorrow? asked the Prince, anxiously. Can I see her tomorrow?

Certainly not, my lord. Lady Pru was decided. Her headaches last three days. The Physician’s giving her infusions to sniff. They’ve relieved her in the past, but not tonight. Nothing’s helping tonight.

The door shut with a click.

Prince George stared at it a moment. Oh, saints, he moaned, turning away. What to do? Here’s Princess giving orders left and right. She’s not supposed to decide anything, but she’ll bite my head off if I don’t obey!

He stomped across the courtyard to the Guards’ billet. The air was heavy. The first drops of a rainstorm plopped on his head. Thunder rumbled in the west while he mumbled to himself.

Either way, I’m in trouble. If I harm Gypsies, I’ll upset the Bishop. If I don’t, the Princess won’t speak to me. And the Empress, who knows what she wants me to do?

The trooper dozing on a stool at the gate jumped to his feet. He clanked his spear against the stones.

Me lord!

The Prince saluted. At ease, Sprig. Who’s Officer tonight? Sergeant Bullock around?

Sprig sat back on the stool, leaning his spear against the wall. He belched. Bullock’s down to tavern with Humber and Pocky. Grizzly’s in charge tonight.

Prince George found Sergeant Grizzly sleeping on a bench next to the wardroom fire. The Prince twitched the end of the blanket. Nothing happened. He gave it a yank. Grizzly leaped up, tall and shaggy, the sword in his hand flashing in the firelight.

Where’s the brawl? Where’s the brawl? We got enemy at the gate?

No enemy, Sergeant. Prince George shrugged. It’s orders from the Princess.

Grizzly lowered his sword. Oh, it’s you, Prince. Why you wakin’ a man at midnight?

I need a squad of troopers to ride to up to Spleen. Gypsies are stealing horses.

Grizzly snorted. Up to Spleen, is it? Gypsies? Well, no man’s gonna ride at night with a storm brewin’. Whatever it be, it’ll wait till dawn. I’ll shake Ratliff out tomorrow.

The Prince stepped forward. But my orders—

Orders, growled Grizzly, plopping his pillow over his sword, orders is like boots. They stretches to fit. Get yourself a good sleep and a feed before you ride. You’ll do the better for it.

He sprawled out, pulling his blanket over him. Goodnight, Prince. Get your winks while you can. That’s my word on it.

Outside, Prince George ran through the beating rain, holding his lionskin over his head. It caught a few of the hailstones bouncing off the courtyard. Back in Quarters, he found a few Knights sleeping on narrow beds, some on mattresses piled with pillows and furs. The Prince slept on a thin pallet covered with a couple old quilts, ragged and thin. Soaked to the skin, he pulled off his jacket and boots. He crept under the quilts.

Sighing, he embraced his sword.

The Empress, he thought. I know she won’t want me chasing off after Gypsies. If only I can speak to her tomorrow. If only—

He tossed on his bed, wet and miserable, until he fell asleep with drunken Knights snoring about him. He dreamed that the Princess sent him to borrow an orange ribbon from Lady Dorinda.

And don’t return till you get it!

When he called to Lady Dorinda, leaning out the window of her tower, she shook her head.

No ribbons for you, fellow, she sang out. I need them for my trousseau.

Empty-handed, he ran back to the Princess. She saw him coming and slammed her chamber door. Back to Dorinda, he ran, but the tower was bolted against him, too. Back and forth he scampered, banging on doors until he jerked awake with thunder booming outside.

Remembering the Princess and the Gypsies, he groaned and turned over again, shutting his eyes and waiting for sleep. The thunder died away, but the rain kept pouring.

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CHAPTER TWO

Spotted Horses

Holding his lionskin over his head, Prince George sloshed through courtyard pools to beg breakfast from the cooks. Finding the kitchen bright and warm from oven fire, he snitched a sausage and cakes from serving trays and sat down on a stool.

D’ye have to ride out, this mornin’, Prince? asked Frith, a kitchen boy scrubbing pots in the corner.

Better now than never! shouted Peeler, the head cook, dashing up from the basement. You boys grab your buckets and basins! Dungeon’s flooding! Water risin’ to the storerooms!

The boys scurried about, grabbing up pails. They clattered down the stairs, taking most of the noise with them.

And you, Peeler exclaimed, snatching the Prince’s platter, you get along with youself! Wet or dry, we got people to feed. Emperor wants his breakfast stinkin’ and steamin’ when he comes to table.

What about the Empress? asked the Prince, rising from the stool. How’s her headache, this morning?

Peeler hurried back to his basting.

All I know is they ordered a tray for her. Light breakfast—porridge and toast—serve at eight-thirty.

At least, she can eat, said the Prince, That’s a good sign.

Out in the stables, Corporal Ratcliff called eight men to attention and saluted the Prince. "’Mornin’, me lord. Grizzly says you got a job for us. Damp day to ride.

I’ve noticed. Prince George shook water from his lionskin. He sneezed.

Ratcliff shook his head. Sounds like a cold comin’ on, me lord. You should stay in bed.

Orders, Corporal. We’re to ride to Spleen to pick up Lazlo and his Gypsies. They’ve been stealing horses.

Gypsies, is it, me lord? Ratcliff spat in a puddle on the floor. Ten to one, you’ll never find ’em. Huntin’ Gypsies in the forest is like seekin’ elves in the pantry. You never find ’em if they don’t want to be found.

I know, groaned the Prince, looking about the shed for a groom to saddle his horse. We’re probably wasting our time, but we’ve got to make the effort. It’s the Princess. She wants to appease Baron Spleen.

Turning to his saddle, Ratcliff muttered, Well, she can please the Baron all she wants. All we’ll find in this washout is hogs and snakes fled to high ground. Roads flood out in a storm like this.

True, true, said the Prince. He kicked a bundle of straw. We’ve got to try, though. We’ve got orders.

The grooms had made themselves scarce, so Ratcliff ordered a recruit to saddle Prince George’s old horse. As the saddle was slapped on, Steed looked dolefully out the dripping saddle door. The horse was tall and bony. Blazing white at one time, the hair on his hide was thinning and gray, but his eyes were alert. He rolled his head with humorous sympathy while Prince George yanked at his straps.

You’ve got to pull ’em tight, Ratcliff advised, leaning on his spear. Leave this horse any give, he’ll drop the saddle and you with it.

Once Steed was secure, the Prince hung his helmet and shield over hooks on the saddlebow. He pulled up on Steed with a grunt. The recruit passed him his spear while the troops mounted, and he walked Steed out into the rain.

It was raining harder as they splashed out the Castle gate. Prince George shivered under his lionskin while the troopers blinked under soaking blankets. They turned north over cobblestone streets, sticking to the middle of the lane to avoid dead rats and sewage floating down the gutters.

Passing the Cathedral, they trotted into Saint James Square, which was lined by small shops with housing crowded above. The marketplace, alive on sunny mornings, seemed empty in the rain. Most of the shopkeepers hadn’t bothered to open their shutters.

Beggars huddled in doorways. Twitchy dogs, all eyeballs and tails, sniffed along the gutter. A few maids ran by with their baskets under wet shawls. The Guards whistled, but the girls didn’t look up.

The sentry under the gatehouse arch at the City wall hooted at them. Ho, Ratcliff, goin’ fishin’ today? Where’s you boat?

Never you mind! Ratcliff called back. You stay here, poor and dry. We’re after plunder. We’ll get rich while you eat pig’s feet.

The rain was heavy in their faces out on the highway. Water streamed down spears and poured off hats. The Prince’s shoulders were damp under his lionskin while his belly and legs were as soaked as if he’d stumbled into the moat. His gloves were soggy, his hands cold, and his feet felt swollen in his boots. He winked his eyes and stared ahead through the downpour, not bothering to wipe his cheeks.

Ratcliff pulled his horse up beside Steed.

They’s little booty in Gypsies, me lord, he observed. Once we get away from the City, we could pillage a castle or snatch a few peddlers on the road. You look like you could use a windfall.

Me? snapped the Prince. I don’t seek silver.

Ratcliff held up a hand. No offense, Prince. What I means is that you’d welcome a wealthy prisoner to ransom. Any lord would. That’s near as good as a rich wife, ain’t it?

I suppose so.

Prince George slipped into a daydream. Suppose he had a spectacular success—not just rousting Gypsies, but defeating an army or killing the dragon. Some great victory to give him fame. If it were grand enough, Princess Julianna might consent to marry him. He imagined her kneeling to him after the wedding, begging him to save the Empire, return it to prosperity.

He knew just what to do. He’d browbeat the lords in Council, stop their squabbles and double their taxes. When he returned to his bride, she’d be watching for him in the royal quarters, waiting in her red robe and slippers. She’d run to him with a kiss.

Oh, my lord, my dear master! she’d cry. How I love you! You’ve saved us all!

SMACK!

A wet branch slapped him across the face, jerking him back to his ride. He was entering the forest where the road narrowed, light dimmed, mud deepened. Thunder roared around him while rain drummed on the trees, streaming from limbs to boughs that sagged under the downpour. Prince George had to pull in his spear under the branches while water drizzled over his head and shoulders.

The Guards rode silently, their horses plodding along in a column, heads low until they came to a brook rushing over its banks. It whirled across the road with a muddy brown froth that brought the squad to a halt.

I don’t like this, Ratcliff yelled over the rain. He dropped from his horse and poked his spear butt into the stream. Flood like that looks easy on top, but she’ll sweep away man and mount if you don’t watch it. Roger, you ride through. See how deep she goes.

Not me! exclaimed Roger, a short man with a wide face. I got drownded last time. Let Orv try her this time.

Well, somebody got to test ’er. Prince, you game?

Prince George walked Steed up to the surging brink. It didn’t look bad to the Prince, but Steed snorted and stopped. He shook his head. He wouldn’t set hoof in that flood.

Stupid horse! cried the Prince, slapping Steed with the reins. He won’t go through!

Kick ’im, suggested Ratcliff, tossing a stick onto the stream. It whirled once and disappeared around a bend.

Oh, you don’t kick Steed, said the Prince, jumping down. He’ll slam you against a tree. Let me borrow your horse.

Ratcliff stepped back. Not my horse, not Jocko.

Well, we’re stuck then, said the Prince, shivering. We’ll have to wait the rain out. Is there a village nearby?

They’s a village up the road, said one of the troopers. "Across the stream.

That don’t help if we stuck on this side, said Ratcliff.

So we camp here. Prince George looked around for shelter. All he saw was trees and more trees. We’ll go on when the rain lets up.

Ratcliff looked back up the road. We ain’t come far. ’Tis easy enough to ride back to barracks. Sleep snug tonight.

Prince George shook his head. He could imagine what the Princess would say if he turned up at the castle without the spotted horses.

No, no, we’d lose the day. We’ll wait it out. Hunker down. Make ourselves comfortable.

Comf’table!

Prince George flopped down against a tree trunk, chilly raindrops trickling down his neck under his lionskin. His legs stuck out, wet and cold. The troopers were just as miserable, hunched under soggy blankets on wet leaves, mucky and muddy with tree roots poking up wherever they sat. Their bags were wet, their bread squishy in the hand. All they had to chew on was a slice or two of dried beef and a few bits of cheese.

The Guards sat in a circle a few steps away from the Prince. Passing the beer keg from hand to hand, they got into stories of commanders that didn’t take proper care of their men. Most tales seemed to turn on officers suffering when their troops refused to rescue them. The captains wound up eaten by giants or slaving in silver mines. One particularly negligent leader, Lord Bone, was staked out in the sun by heathens.

Now a few minutes o’ sunshine wouldn’t bother me none at the moment, said Roger, philosophically, but that Bone got more sun than required. It baked him flat. When the army found him, they had to roll him up like a pancake and tie him to the back of a cart. Nobody missed him, not a soul.

That’s what happens, said another guardsman, gloomily. That’s what happens.

The rain got louder and colder as the hours passed. The night was black. Once the guardsmen stopped talking, Prince George heard nothing but rain slapping leaves and the stream rushing by. He dropped into a miserable doze where he dreamed that he was crawling through a flooded cave. Then someone kicked him.

Who’s there? he cried. Who kicked me?

Sorry, me lord. Didn’t see you there.

Who’s that? Who’s that?

The men mumbled to themselves, laughed, and fell quiet again.

Shifting his position, Prince George groaned. Here I sit, kicked and drenched. This is no adventure, no heroic quest. What will the minstrels sing about me? I’ve got to guard my fame. Those ballads live forever.

He hunched up his legs.

I can’t go on this way, hanging around the castle for Princess to send me on ridiculous errands. Things have to change.

A carter came by, next morning, headed to the City with a load of logs. His mules passed through the flood with ease, barely dipping their knees in the stream. The Prince and the Guards crossed silently, one by one.

Rain lessened, but a scattered drizzle continued the next few days as they rode up the northern highway, then cut west down a narrow lane where hamlets grew like weeds in the forest without protecting castles. They stopped nights in barns and woodsheds, stripping gardens and chicken coops for dinner.

We’re as bad as Gypsies ourselves, thought the Prince, watching Roger and two of the troopers drag a squealing pig from a pigpen while peasants shouted curses across a fence.

A day later, one-eyed Dick shot a deer. They roasted it over hot coals, the troopers arguing whether the Emperor’s men could be hanged for killing the Emperor’s deer.

Not if we on official mission, Ratcliff decreed. We has the force of the Crown behind us if we’re doin’ our duty.

But is we doin’ our duty? demanded Roger. No man heard the Empress order us to hassle these Gypsies. It’s that Princess. She’s actin’ up again. You know what they say about her. She’s a royal hoyden, out of control.

Enough of that! snapped the Prince. Don’t talk about your betters!

Don’t matter to me, mumbled Roger. ’Tis the officer gets hanged if the men breaks the rules.

Oh, Roger, Roger, sighed Ratcliff. You knows better than that. Whoever heard of the officer gettin’ hanged? The men, always the men gets hanged.

The sun finally shone about the time they crossed into Spleen. Finding the Gypsy camp was easy. Every peasant in Spleen Village ran out of his hut, pointing and complaining.

Them Gypsies, you’ll find ’em down by the creek. They stole our chickens and the shirts dryin’ on the bushes. Run ’em away, me lords! Shoo ’em off to the next parish before they strips us clean!

Sure enough, the Gypsies were camped in a grassy meadow along Windy Creek, cozy in their green and yellow carts with grubby sailcloths spread from one to the other for shade. Skinny dogs ran out barking. They yelped and fled under the carts as the troopers trotted toward them.

Lazlo, the Viada of the Gypsies, swaggered out to greet the Prince. Lazlo was a big man with dirty boots, a huge moustache, and gold earrings. He wore colorful clothes, patched and faded.

Spreading his arms, he shouted, My lords, my lords, welcome to our camp! Welcome, welcome, welcome! Have you knives to sharpen, horses to heal? Our skills are at your service!

Other Gypsies, throwing dice on a sheepskin by the fire, glanced out of the corners of their eyes. The men were thin and dark with knives in the sashes. One leaned forward and scooped up coins while the others hissed at him.

Prince George dropped to the ground. Lazlo called, Yerko, Ference, hold my lord’s horses! We must welcome my lord properly.

None o’ that! cried Ratcliff as the Gypsies reached for the reins. We keeps our own mounts! Roger, you tie the horses over there. You stand guard over ’em.

Wine for my lord! cried Lazlo. A pretty girl came from a tent with a pot of wine.

My daughter, Lizetta, Lazlo grinned.

Lizetta curtseyed to Prince George, head tilted, dark eyes impudently peeking up. The Gypsy wore gold necklaces and bracelets. Her dress, pinkish-red, ended a few inches above the ground, showing dirty ankles and feet in worn slippers.

She held out the pot in both hands. Blushing at her stare, Prince George took the pot, quickly drank.

Thanks Mistress, er, Lizetta. Lazlo, we have to talk to you about Lord Spleen’s horses.

Lazlo spread his hands. Oh, my lord’s horses, sad creatures—worked-out, neglected. It took weeks to heal that crippled mare, and Baron Spleen refused to pay us. But you, my lord, do you care to trade your horse?

Lazlo stepped to Steed, ran a hand over the horse’s shoulder and felt around his jaw. Steed snorted, pulling away.

This horse, Lazlo nodded, this horse is a veteran, a horse of great quality. He’s trotted many miles, but old now, worn. I have a fine young stallion for you, my lord. You must look him over. But first, you’re hungry. Let us prepare a meal for your company. You must share our hospitality for the Lord’s sake

Prince George shook his spear. Get this straight, Lazlo. We want Lord Spleen’s spotted horses! No stalling around! Show us your horses, now!

Lizetta whirled with a swish. Head high, she strutted back to the cart as Lazlo smiled broadly. Oh, my lord, we’ll show our beasts with joy. I’m sure, you’ll see one or two you care to buy. Come, come with me. Our animals are tied behind the carts, the finest horseflesh in the land.

Lazlo led the way, other Gypsies trailing behind. Prince George and Ratcliff exchanged glances, then followed, clutching their spears.

The horses tied along the stream were the scrawniest, most forlorn beasts Prince George had ever seen. They chewed grass slowly, each bite an effort. Flies wandered over them unchecked as though walking on dead squirrels. None was spotted. There were no yearlings. Lazlo clucked, and they took a step forward, eyes widening as they stared at Prince George.

Splendid beasts, as you see, splendid! cried Lazlo, patting the nearest. I know they seem a bit thin, but as my lord knows, it’s the wiry ones that keep going. These beasts have pulled our carts from the Shrine in the east to the desert in the west. A special offer for my lord—two for one. I’ll trade you two horses for one, if my lord cares to swap.

I’m not here to trade! cried the Prince, turning on Lazlo. I want those spotted horses, Gypsy. Lord Spleen’s horses that you stole!

Me steal? Lazlo squealed. You wound me, my lord! Search, search about our camp! Look everywhere! Inspect our carts! You’ll find no stolen horses, nor anything else. We’re working men, humble tinkers and horse doctors. No one has ever accused us of theft!

Don’t worry, declared the Prince, his heart sinking within him. We’ll search. And we’ll find those beasts, no matter where you’ve hidden them.

Despite his confident words, he’d lost hope. If Lazlo were so eager to be searched, the horses must be hidden well or sold already. But he had to make an effort.

Search the camp, Corporal, he ordered. Scour the forest around. Those horses must be somewhere.

Watching the Guards flounder through the camp, Lazlo shook his head sadly.

It has ever been this way. Chickens fly off, horses run away, children get lost—and who gets blamed for it? The Gypsy, ever the Gypsy. Because we’re poor, because we’re wanderers, landless on the face of the earth, we must be thieves. You beat us, drive us away, steal our possessions. No one cares for us but our friend the Bishop, his Grace, so far off in the Cathedral. Search, search, please, my lord. Verify our honesty. Prove once and for all that the Gypsy are honest folk.

Ratcliff cursed. He slapped at a small brown hand in his purse. A Gypsy girl, about seven, ran away with a whoop. Lazlo went on without notice.

"And while you search, my lord, we’ll prepare a feast to welcome you, a real pachiv. Gypsy food, Gypsy music, Gypsy dancing. Such revels, you’ve never seen. All your life, you’ll remember our cheer!"

As Prince George feared, not a spotted horse could be found. The Guards searched everywhere in the camp, but found only old clothes, worn tools, and children that hid as they approached and sneaked up when backs were turned. Ratliff hunted through the forest two miles about, but saw nothing other than a badger set and three deer that bounded off before bowshot.

Let me at him! Ratcliff begged, shaking his spear. I’ll take a club to that Lazlo. That’ll make him spill out the truth! You know, they hidin’ them horses. They laughin’ at us, me lord, thinkin’ they put it over on us.

Prince George watched the Gypsies preparing the feast. He tried to decide what to do.

Let’s squeeze ’em, urged Ratcliff. Squeeze ’em enough, and they’ll squeal.

We can’t beat Lazlo without evidence, Prince George insisted. He’ll protest to the Bishop for sure. Look harder. If we can find one of them, a single spotted horse, then we can tear Lazlo apart without blame.

But no spotted horses were to be found. The Gypsies celebrated with a party, and what a feast they threw! Exotic fruit, stews spiced with flavors never tasted, cakes, and good wine—surely stolen from some Lord’s cellars. The music went to the Prince’s heart, hands slapping, fiddles wailing, voices sobbing the passions of a homeless folk.

The wind blows east, the wind blows west,

the people follow after.

We climb the hills, we cross the vales

through sorrow and through laughter.

A hedgehog here, a rabbit there,

we help ourselves to dinners,

and then, next day, we slip away

grateful, wandering sinners.

Later, as wineskins emptied, the Gypsies flared up at each other, shaking fists and yelling in strange tongues. "Kuhl! Rikono!"

Prince George and his men stared in amazement as the Gypsies pulled knives and threatened each other. They jumped around, yelling and spitting, before making up with tears and embraces. They passed around the wineskin and took up their fiddles again.

Then the dancing began, first men, then women. Lizetta danced by herself, spinning by firelight—teeth flashing, arms inviting, skirt swirling. Little girls imitated her around the edge of the company, twirling with arms lifted. One slow, seductive dance brought Prince George to his feet. Ratcliff pulled him down by his shirt.

No, no, me lord! No kisses there. Gypsy women are all ‘come hither, come hither,’ but you gets a knife in the ribs if you lays a finger on ’em.

The dancing slowed and stopped. Lizetta dropped onto a blanket with the children creeping about her. Yerko threw more logs on the fire, and the old woman, Mother Theresa, started the stories, describing the devices—‘big tricks,’ she called them—by which Gypsies fool the Gadji, stealing the coins of the credulous. When it was Lazlo’s turn, he told the story of the Nail, the fourth nail of the Cross, the reason for the Bishop’s blessing.

A thousand years ago, Roman soldiers forced Gypsy workmen to hammer out nails for the Crucifixion of Christ. In the dark of that dreadful night, the Gypsy King tried to spare the Lord by stealing back the nails to save our Lord from suffering on the Cross. Sadly, the Gypsy succeeded in stealing only one of the nails before being driven away. With a nail missing, the Romans had to cross Christ’s feet to pin them by the third nail. But the fourth nail, the Holy Nail, has been hidden by the Gypsies through the ages.

Of course, my lord, Lazlo explained, his Grace, the Bishop, hopes that we give him the Nail for his Cathedral. We’ll never give up our prize, never! The Nail’s our jewel! The Nail’s our treasure.

By then, most of the Gypsies had crept away while the Guards fell asleep, sprawled in their blankets about the dying fire. Finally, Lazlo bowed, muttered something unintelligible, and stumbled off to his cart.

Prince George stretched on his lionskin. He took a deep breath, smelling the fire, the wine, the grass and leaves around. He tried to relax, Lizetta still dancing in his head. Then the Princess appeared in his thoughts, frowning at him for failing in his mission. He shivered with shame. The faces of girls—Lizetta, Dorinda, Princess Julianna—passed before him as he fell asleep. Even little Jessica was frowning at him.

I must do something, he muttered, something, anything. I must get hold of my life. Things have to change.

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CHAPTER THREE

The Contest

Oh, Princess is going to be furious with me! Absolutely furious!

Muttering to himself, Prince George walked Steed back through North Gate into late afternoon shadows. If I’d found the horses, even one or two horses, I could defend myself. What will she say to me, bringing nothing?

Steed looked around sympathetically while the guards at the Gate leaned on their spears, taunting the riders straggling behind.

Ratcliff, Ratcliff, where’s that plunder you bragged about? You got a wagon rattlin’ behind with all them bags o’ silver?

Ratcliff’s horse clopped through the passage behind the Prince.

Yeah, you’re quiet now! laughed the sentries. No big stories when you shows up with empty purses!

Prince George was surprised to find the City streets crowded for a workday evening. As the people parted for the horses, Prince George called to a woman hurrying by with her maid and a boy.

Ho, dame, what day is this?

The woman paused to curtsey. Surely, my lord, you knows it’s Saint Bridget’s Day.

It’s Thursday, is it?

The woman laughed heartily, the maid giggling along with her.

Oh, bless you, my lord, you’re a day behind. ’Tis Friday, two days before Sabbath.

Oh, Friday, good. My thanks, Dame.

Prince George took a long sniff of City air as Steed stepped through garbage in the street. Ah, the stink of home—smoke, sewage, people, beasts. Cooking! He nudged Steed towards the Castle.

See you later, Prince, called Ratcliff, turning at the corner with the Guards. We checkin’ in the tavern.

I’ll stop by Court to hear the news, the Prince decided. Report later to the Princess. Much later.

Back at the Castle, he left Steed in the stable. He dropped off his arms at the barracks where he prepared for Court, splashing cold water on his face, wiping it with a rag, and looking into the cracked mirror for any sign of a beard. All he saw were pimples around his mouth.

He tossed his filthy shirt under his bed and pulled another from the box at the end of his bunk. He sniffed the shirt. Clean enough. He shook out the wrinkles, pulled it on, and pushed by a pair of squires chatting at the door.

Ho, my lord! they cried. You find spotted horses? Gypsy gold?

Ignoring everyone, Prince George clattered down the steps, hurried across the courtyard, and slipped through the dim corridor to the Throne Room. Outside the entrance, he paused to adjust his hat. He stepped into the brightly lit hall.

Restless courtiers spread to both sides of the dais where the Emperor dozed on his cushions with his mouth open. The Empress sat beside him on her throne, talking to a priest who listened intently.

Oh, oh, thought the Prince, stepping quietly behind gossiping onlookers. He saw the Princess lounging next to her mother in a bright red gown with a gold scarf over her shoulders and her jeweled necklace about her neck. Her crown twinkled against her curly dark hair. She nodded at a comment from Lady Jessica, who stood beside her holding towels and gloves.

Temporal lords stood to the left of the thrones, ecclesiasts to the right. The knights sat in their corner and the ladies in theirs. The rest of the hall was crowded with visitors, servants, and entertainers—all waiting their turns before the royals or watching others at theirs. Everyone was drinking, talking, flirting, laughing.

The Princess stiffened when her dark eyes spotted Prince George at the door. She glanced at her mother and whispered to Jessica. Jessica looked toward the door and whispered back. They watched Prince George creep along the wall to the Knights’ bench, muttering greetings to Sir Patrick and Sir Frederick, who lifted their cups in salute.

A moment later, Jessica left the dais. She looped around the corners of the room to greet Prince George with a curtsy and a smile. Welcome back, my lord.

Jessica, he shrugged. Yes, I’m back.

It’s good to see you. Jessica curtsyed again. My lady Princess requests that you give your report immediately.

Oh. He glanced over at Princess Julianna. She was staring straight at him. He looked away.

I … I’m not quite ready to— Looks like they’ve got a full agenda tonight. I thought, I’d wait till Monday Court.

She says, you should report at once, Jessica insisted. The Empress wants to hear your success.

Oh, the Empress, he sighed. He straightened and took a deep breath. Jessica skipped back around the crowd while the Prince stumbled up the carpet in his dusty boots to wait for the Empress to conclude with the priest she was addressing. Her Majesty was talking quickly, arranging a funeral.

Flutes and lutes, Father. Dame Clarice would have wanted more than a piper.

The priest nodded. Her Majesty rushed on.

Six, no, twelve candles, and the full choir. And a good homily, a long one. Dame Clarice loved a homily.

Oh, of course, Your Majesty! The priest sounded eager. I can speak all morning on the freeing of the soul to the glorious realms of Heaven.

A half-hour will suffice, Father.

The Princess rolled her eyes as the priest nodded again. The Empress noticed Prince George. He blushed when she gestured him forward.

Welcome, welcome back, my boy! Did you have a good ride?

The Empress was slim and dark-haired like the Princess. Tonight, her eyes were big, her smile bright. She waved the priest away.

Thank you, Father. I’m sure your service will be fine.

Prince George scuffed his boots as Her Majesty smiled upon him.

Did you find the Gypsies? she asked. I’m sure you heard that Dame Clarice died Wednesday, bless her soul. Just let out a gasp and rolled down the back staircase, bumping down twelve steps. She was fifty-four.

Prince George pulled off his hat. I’m sorry to hear that, he mumbled. I liked Dame Clarice.

Oh, she was a goer, the Empress clasped her hands. You know, she traveled to the Shrine twice on pilgrimage, once with my mother. She rode up to Darr for the old Duke’s funeral.

Her Majesty turned to poke the Emperor. My lord, my lord, Prince George is returned.

Yes, yes! The Emperor sputtered awake. What is it? What is it?

He blinked around the Throne Room as the Empress repeated, Prince George is back.

Oh. The Emperor yawned. Was he gone?

The Empress leaned over his throne, hissing at him, The Gypsies, my lord! Lord Spleen’s spotted horses! Julianna sent Prince George to recover them, remember?

Oh, yes, yes, the horses.

The Emperor yawned again. Leaning against the armrest, he rubbed bleary eyes to gaze at the Prince. So, Prince, spotted horses, eh? How many horses you get?

The Prince’s heart dropped within him. Nervously, he squeezed his hat.

My lord, he muttered, I just got back. I hurried over to report that I … I found the Gypsies, all right.

The Emperor yawned again. He leaned forward. And plunder? You bring me any plunder?

Prince George blushed hot. He shook his head. No plunder, my lord. No spotted horses. We couldn’t find anything. We looked everywhere, village, camp, forest, and fields. Not a horse anywhere. Lazlo didn’t have those spotted horses.

He glanced at the Princess. She glared at him. Prince George turned his eyes away.

Oh, the Emperor settled back on his throne, shaking his head. That’s not what we wanted. Not satisfactory.

My dear, he turned to the Empress. I’d have sent a veteran captain, Sir Otley or Vernon. A veteran would have squeezed those Gypsies. You have to squeeze Gypsies to get anything out of them.

Now, my lord, said the Empress, patting his hand, I’m sure that Prince George handled the Gypsies as well as anyone. If he couldn’t find spotted horses, nobody could find them.

Beg pardon, my lady. The Bishop spoke up, leaning over the throne from the right. You mustn’t harm Gypsies, you know. Poor sinners, they’re under the Church’s protection.

The Empress looked back at Prince George. Did you harm any Gypsies?

No, my lady, the Prince mumbled. I didn’t touch them.

Well, then, don’t worry, dear. I’m sure you did as well as anyone could. She turned to the Princess. Now, Julianna, don’t blame the Prince. It’s not his fault. Of course, he couldn’t find the horses. You know the old saying, ‘Every Gypsy knows his trade.’ It’d take a greater rogue than Prince George to find horses the Gypsies have hidden.

The Princess looked away. She folded her arms tightly, muttering, Well, if it were me, I’d have found something! I wouldn’t show up empty-handed like a foolish virgin at a wedding.

The Empress smiled at Prince George.

Don’t worry, dear. We don’t blame you. I’m sure you did your best. Princess Julianna shouldn’t have sent you in the first place. She was only asked to collect messages, not send out troops. You get cleaned up now and have some supper. I’ll give you another task when you’re more experienced. I’m sure you’ll do well then.

Blushing deeply, Prince George bowed again. He felt eyes on him as he edged through the crowd toward the knights. The Herald began pounding his staff on the stones, calling for silence in the hall. Attention turned back to the thrones, except at the Knights’ bench where the Knights scooted aside for the Prince. Sir Otley thumped his back when the Prince sat down.

Adventures, lad, merry adventures! You pocket any plunder? What about those Gypsy girls?

Quiet, Knight, whispered Sir Vernon. Lord Darr’s makin’ a speech.

Oh, I knew Gypsy girls in my day. Sir Otley smacked his lips. They wriggle like serpents in your arms! Kiss you while cutting your purse! I remember one bright-eye named Dina—

Tall and thin, Sir Frederick sprawled against the wall with a wine cup in his hand. He began singing, smacking the floor with his cup.

The Gypsy life, the Gypsy life—

ahead of the Sheriff,

away from my wife!

Hush! whispered Sir Vernon.

Sir Otley passed a cup of wine to Prince George, who looked at the Princess. She was composed now, watching the Duke of Darr step forward with his daughter. Lady Dorinda glowed like a pearl in pale ivory. She wore a silver coronet with a green jewel. She had green slippers on her feet. Her face was expressionless.

The Duke rocked back and forth in his boots as the Herald pounded his staff again, calling for quiet. My lords and ladies, silence in the hall! Silence for the great Duke of Darr! Silence for the Duke!

The hubbub slowly settled. Sir Frederick’s scratchy voice rang out.

Nothing to pay

when you take out a loan.

Every man’s horses

as good as your own.

The life of a Gypsy,

the Gypsy life—

Sir Vernon poked him. Sir Frederick fell into a snore. Prince George stretched out his legs as the Duke of Darr began his speech.

Royal Majesties, lords and ladies, all who know me know that I’m not much at the speechifyin’. Battle cries is my game, not orations. But the time comes when a lord must speak his piece to his prince, his priest, and his peers. Today, I says mine.

The life of a Gypsy, muttered Sir Frederick, dropping his cup.

Quiet, Knight! rumbled Sir Otley.

The Duke lowered his arms before the thrones. Everyone knows the tragedy o’ my life. I got no son to inherit me. There it is, my story in a nutshell! The Duchess and me, we got one gel, Dorinda here. A splendid gel she is—pretty as a peahen and healthy as a horse. But no son came along despite our prayers.

The Duke pointed to Lady Dorinda, who stood stiff, cool as a statue, staring blankly ahead while her father continued his speech.

So, time has come that we marry off my daughter. The world knows that Dorinda bears throne-right to Darr and Thorn and Mirron and all my lands up north. The man that marries Dorinda will be Heir. They’s no one else in line for my crown.

A bustle ran through the hall at this. Counts and barons muttered together. The bachelor knights sitting by Prince George exchanged whispers. The Prince yawned and looked up at the Princess, who leaned forward with interest.

Silence, silence! shouted the Herald. He banged his staff and the room fell quiet again.

And of course, continued the Duke, "dozens of fine lords has come to court my Dorinda. Any of ’em would make a noble husband—I says nothin’ against ’em—but Darr needs more than dancin’ legs and a handsome face on the man that inherits my throne. Up on the border with touchy lords to all sides and the Kingdom of Vile to the north, Darr needs a strong-fisted hero to guard the Duchy.

I’ve held my borders for thirty years, now. You’ve all heard ballads about my battles. Well, here we are. I still have a few good years in me, Lord willin’, but it’s time I thinks to the future.

There was another murmur at this. The Empress nodded her head. Sir Frederick belched.

So, shouted the Duke, stomping his boots on the floor, here and now, Saint Bridget’s Day, I challenge any lord of might and mettle! Her Majesty has agreed that I call a Contest for the hand of Lady Dorinda! The rank, the station of the man, don’t matter. Duke, baron, or squire—any gentleman with the gumption to win this Contest will have my daughter in marriage. Then, when it’s my time to join the ancestors, I’ll leave Darr—and Dorinda—in good hands.

A roar swept through the Throne Room. Lords and ladies looked to their sons. The Knights’ corner, especially, was excited. Every unmarried Knight from veteran swordsman to young lancer pondered his chances. Down the bench, Sir Rudolf and Sir Drake started squabbling over who was most likely to win. A shove up the row squeezed Prince George against Sir Otley.

Sir Rudolf shouted, You don’t stand a chance, Knight! I trounced you in the last three tourneys!

It was your horse beat me! yelled Sir Drake, shoving back. Hand to hand, you couldn’t beat a milkmaid!

Prince George jumped away as the knights began wrestling. Sir Otley threw them apart, roaring, Are you mad, Knights? No fightin’ in the royal presence! You’ll have me to deal with!

Recently married, Sir Steffen groaned, Why didn’t I hold out another year? All I got with my Coraline was fifty ounces of silver and three horses!

Sir Frederick had lost his wine cup. He crawled up from under the bench, crowing at the top of his voice, The end of the world! The end of the world! Carry me off to Jo-Town!

Heralds ran around the room bawling for silence. The Empress covered her ears while the Princess looked disgusted. Paler than ever, Lady Dorinda closed her eyes while the Duke looked delighted at the excitement. He clapped his hands until the confusion settled, then roared on.

Now, the question, how do we choose this champion? That’s what I’d ask if I was a single man of twenty-five and ready for adventure. The answer—why, we choose him like in the old songs. Any gentleman, unmarried and game, can show up at Castle Darr on Saint Monica’s Day, a month from today. My gel, Lady Dorinda, will give him three tasks. First hero to succeed at his tasks gets her hand. Can’t be fairer than that, can I?

Now, there was really a roar as questions were hurled at the Duke. He caught the questions and answered them as best he could.

What’s that, Ma’am? No, no forfeits here. No loser loses his head, nothing like that. O’ course, the tasks is dangerous. An example? Well, you remember Hercules draggin’ that three-headed hound from Hell—that sort o’ thing!

At that, the roar grew louder. Mothers protested that the tasks were impossible. The Duke didn’t care.

O’ course, they’re impossible! he yelled. T’wouldn’t be a test if they wasn’t! I wouldn’t set a warrior to huntin’ Easter eggs!

Sir Otley poked Prince George in the ribs.

You signin’ up, Prince? Havin’ a go at them tasks? I’d be first in line if I was your age!

The Prince shook a weary head. No, my lord, not me. I couldn’t even find stolen horses. How could I drag a dog from Hell? I think I’ll go down to the kitchen. Find myself something to eat.

Oh, don’t put yourself down, the Knight insisted. It’s no man’s fault if he fails with Gypsies. Lazlo’s slippery, impossible to deal with ‘less you got a glove o’ truth. A truth-glove, that’d get answers out of the old thief. Otherwise, no one gets a straight story out of that old Gypsy!

Prince George waved good-bye to the Knights and walked toward the door. He heard someone crying his name. Cedric, the page, ran up.

Prince, Prince George!

Pulling off his hat, Cedric bowed to the Prince. He looked up with shining eyes.

Isn’t it wonderful, my lord? Just like the old songs! If I were a squire, I’d be on the road to Darr myself. Lord Flint’s trying out, and Lords Tork and Garm. There’ll be ballads sung about this Contest for sure!

Prince George shrugged. You have a message for me?

Cedric bowed again. Yes, my lord. Princess Julianna wants to see you in her chamber. She says, immediately after Court.

Swallowing hard, Prince George nodded. Cedric saluted and ran off on another errand. Prince George made a hasty visit to the private room where he washed more thoroughly at one of the bowls. He wiped off his boots with a towel and tried to beat the dust off his hat.

Knights and gentlemen stood around, talking of the challenge. Even those who didn’t plan to compete wanted to ride up to Darr to witness the Contest. Everyone envied the winner.

Instant fame! cried a squire. Every minstrel in the land will be there! They’ll chronicle the winner forever.

Wizard’s taking bets, someone said. Shortest odds on Lord Flint and Baron Bann.

What about the knights, Sir Ox, Sir Maul? asked someone else.

My coin’s on Flint! cried a voice from a stall. He wrestles bears for sport.

Not me, said a gentleman trimming his beard with little scissors before a mirror. I’m for Ox. He drove the dragon away.

Well, he didn’t kill it, said another. It flew off before he got near.