The Prince and the Minor Mishap

Once upon a forgotten time, in a legendary land, a charming and courageous prince set forth on an adventure to rescue a damsel in distress. For what could be more distressing than being atop a tower which also served as a nest of a ferocious fire-breathing dragon? Few predicaments are, and being bucked off your loyal steed is one of them.

The player’s fall was followed by curtains and the audible frustration of the audience, the loudest of whom was the heir to the throne himself, who was a child hearing the tale for the first time.

“That was it?”

“Keep playing, Bart.” A disembodied voice came from backstage, as if the wooden boards themselves learned to squeak a human language. “Don’t mind me,” it said with a creak and an echo of footfalls.

Bartholomew the Bard picked at the strings of his lute in the same order that had once summoned the Prince to the stage.

Upon hearing it, the heir sat down next to his father who commanded the royal court in attendance with all the power of a king. “Silence! It’s starting!”

Beyond the curtain, the player wearing the Prince’s paper crown was struggling to stand straight. His loyal steed tore itself apart and a pair of twins spilled out of it. The head of the stitched beast was Janus who was damp with sweat and shaking with fury.

“You’ve been eating your weight in meat pies, Alec.”

Jana joined her brother after crawling out of the tail of the horse. “And drinking all the ale.”

The Prince was supposed to be as gorgeous as he was graceful. Alexander had bright eyes and rosy cheeks, but it was not his talent as a thespian. It was the countless cups of ale that the king’s servants had filled for the playing company.

Janus demanded that he offer his paper crown to Conrad. He was a lightweight and had refused any drink. And he was also light in weight, a mercy on Jana’s back. Once Connie stood astride the stitched steed, he carried himself on stage, putting one foot forward and following it only at Jana’s instruction. And the hero of the tale stepped onto the stage once more.

As the Prince posed for the royal court, wooden sword out and chin up high, the boy turned to his father and inquired:

“Is that Grandfather?”

“It is.”

The Prince had once been handsome in his youth. Or so he had been told by his grandmother while he was youthful himself. His grandmother, then a princess in peril, was blinded by his golden locks before she even made it out as distinct from the diadem on his head.

Connie did not shine like the sun, though he was blond. Jana could not see any of it, but she never pictured him wearing the crown when she made it. She instructed him all the same, and the Prince lowered the sword and spoke the lines fed to him by his horse’s behind.

“Onward, my loyal steed,” he sang, stuck in his role as the bard. “A princess awaits to be freed.”

Another, less musical line, cut him off. “Wonderer, do not venture over yonder.” It was a knight without a steed, only armor fastened onto him with ribbons. From the left of the stage he stepped out and appeared ready for anything, yet spoke as if he was not. “‘Tis the land of rain and thunder.”

The Prince was not dissuaded by this display. “A coward I am,” he puffed his chest like a rooster and his crown made him appear as an angry one. “Not,” he added after his steed made a sharp sound like a spear to the ears. “A coward I am not,” he cleared his voice of all shame that may have constricted it.

The heir hid his smile and smothered his laugh. The King heard it ring in the cacophony of his court. His grandmother’s retelling had been free of ridicule. The words she painted Grandfather with were of awe. He kept them in mind as his eyes witnessed the new picture being made with a fresh palette.

“Neither am I.” The knight moved closer to the Prince, each step sounding off the wooden stage like a horse hoof. He had his fists in front of him as if he was holding the reins of one. “The wind blew me back and the roads turned to rivers.”

“And thou turned into the Knight of Shivers,” The Prince bellowed bravely. “My loyal steed can sail the seven seas,” That steed of his bucked at the sound of him. “If thou wish to cross it, then follow me.”

The King leaned forward, his eyes drinking in the daring display on stage. It began to resemble the yarn his grandmother had spun. And he urged his son to not let his attention waver, pointing to the play when the parting of the curtains revealed the bard again. He was there to sing about the brave exploits that couldn’t be conveyed with clothed beasts and masterful mimicry.

With the Knight of Shivers now to him sworn

The Prince ventured forward and chased off the storm

The heir rather enjoyed the little ditty and mouthed the words that made his father proud to be the descendant of such daring. The Prince, the Knight and their pretend steeds stomped to the beat of the song, moving from the right to the left and shirking off into the shadows backstage.

Behind the curtains, Jana came up for air. She had run out of breath while crossing the stage. Janus joined her and bucked Cony off his back. The rapture of applause soon smothered the sound.

“Well done,” Janus sucked a mouthful of air, his sweaty face reddened by heat and pride warming him. “Gerry, are you ready?” He directed Gerald, the Knight of Leaves, to the left side of the stage, while still trotting in the horse costume.

“What about me?” Alec walked over to the twins on sea legs. The clap of thunder, the beating of the drums in Duncan’s lap, covered his slurring.

“You can join us on stage when you learn how to walk in a straight line.”

Gerry followed the direction of Janus and left Alec behind to swear and sway in place. Duncan hit the drums and drowned him out. It was for the better that the backstage rituals stayed a mystery and the spell was not broken before their final bow.

The Prince returned before the royal court, and the Knight of Shivers walked in his steed’s steps with his arms in front of him and his boots stomping like hooves.

The boy was completely captivated and clapped for them. The court followed their heir’s lead and loudly cheered. The King could at last lean back on his throne and enjoy the show.

He found himself delighting in the dramatization of the Knight of Leaves and his spar with the shades in the Forest, his challenge of the Prince, the clashing of swords, and the inevitable victory of his ancestor. And, of course, the subsequent submission of this knight as he swore fealty to the Prince’s cause.

The audience did not seem to be bothered by the long pause of the Prince before he commanded his two allies. The King could not help but notice he crouched forward first and put his ear to the saddle before speaking. Yet he did not mind this minor mishap. He laughed along with his heir when the bard sounded them off.

The Prince is now bravely cutting the bush

That hath knocked the knight on his soft tush

The fearsome sound of foliage being stepped on filled the stage as the players exited through the left side of it. The applause accompanied the last strings pulled by the bard. And the company reunited behind the curtain.

Janus gave his sister and his back a break. “How’s the gown, Alec?”

“Second skin,” he answered with the high and airy voice of a damsel.

He was wearing the Princess costume, but his peers would say it was wearing him. It was fit for Connie, and so it burst at a seam or two on him. With the woolen wig on his head and the pink blush the alcohol painted on his face, he was ready to make the audience weep.

The Princess was in a perilous position. Her hand moved to her forehead and her frown on her sharp, handsome face. She pleaded in vain to the audience because her Prince was not there.

The bard sang of her sadness and picked at the heartstrings of the young heir. The King grew somber for a moment. It rhymed with the song his grandmother played. She sang of the sorrow of her own mother. Or was it her grandmother? Whichever it was, he was ready to laugh again, and her savior arrived just in time to turn his frown upside down. When another player showed up, it was immediately turned right side up.

“Father, who is that?”

The King was as naive as his heir as to which role this new player was meant to fill. He tried his best not to show it on his face as he answered: “A brave knight sworn to the Prince.” And he allowed himself to breathe again when the boy bought the golden lie he sold him.

“I am the Prince’s loyal squire. In his name I’ve come to inquire for your hand—”

“There'll be nothing to desire.” The Princess flailed her hand. “If it’s torched by dragon fire.”

“He is below with his knights, for he much despises heights."

The son didn't see the unmasked confusion on his father’s face. His eyes were preoccupied with the scrappy squire and the sword he swung at the beast that now chased the Princess like a shadow along the length of the small stage. Or, rather, like a wooden plank on wheels that she dragged behind her.

“My courageous, charming knight–”

“Squire.”

“How are thou so free of fright?”

Cowering behind his smaller figure, the Princess pulled at the rope that summoned the shape of the dragon closer.

“Though man is assailed by thrill, we prevail through force of will.” The squire swung the wooden weapon one final time and the wheels turned, taking the dragon off the stage as the curtains fell heavy upon the dusty wooden boards.

The heir to the throne was the first to celebrate, his clapping hitting like lightning and warning of the impending thunder. The applause of the King and the rest of the royal court echoed not far behind.

When the curtains raised, taking a bow were the Prince, the Knight of Shivers, the Knight of Leaves, the Princess and the squire and the bard. The loyal steed was now without his back legs, bowing his head, and the dragon sat forgotten at the back of the stage, in the darkness, like the slain species that he belonged to.

The King watched the squire, the shortest of the players, and saw more maiden than man under the heavy helmet and in that big bright smile. Then, before all the threads of thought could be weaved into a revelation, he was blinded by another set of teeth.

“Have you met Grandfather’s squire, Father?”

He had not heard his grandmother utter a word or sing a verse of such a man. Yet these thespians spun a yarn that held the heir’s attention for an evening, and he now wished to seal the smile to memory by sacrificing the histories he had been taught.

“I did. Your Grandmother knighted him herself.”

The squire shook off her helmet backstage. It was not as heavy as Alec or as stuffy as the back half of the steed, but she was just as sweaty after wearing it.

“Jana,” Alec held onto her shoulders as he steadied himself. He was no more sober than he had been during the first act, but his lumbering limbs had suited the Princess. “How was it walking in your brother’s shoes?”

“In all fairness, it was our grandmother’s shoes,” Janus sighed, pulling off the horse's head.

“Or our great-grandmother,” Jana shook off the man’s hands, and stripped the armor from her chest. “At least, that’s what Mama told us.”

“She had two babes to put to sleep,” Janus laughed. “She would’ve told us anything to drown out the weeping.”

Of the Prince and his two and a half knights the twins have heard from their Mother. Who heard it from her grandmother. Or great-grandmother. It mattered not for Jana. She had written the part of the hero to fit any player. Save for Alec after a barrel of ale.