The Princess and the Pee
It was well past midnight when Prince William Charmin (shar-MEEN) arrived with the royal guard. His visage was pale, with great bags hanging under his eyes and his mouth drooping at the corners. His shoulders slumped beneath a luxurious ermine cape as he alighted from a golden carriage, which was drawn by four beautiful white beasts.
One particularly feisty horse made a great lunge against its breast strap just as the Prince was setting his foot on the last step, which inevitably threw him flat on his face in the snow. A simultaneous gasp of horror went up from the onlooking servants, and instantly he was surrounded by a crowd of well-meaning hands. Growling, he shook them off and leaned on the arm of a young male-servant.
"Take me up to the main entry," he panted. The servant led the prince away from the mob and up the marble staircase, handling him as if he were a bag of priceless chinaware. He let go of his arm only to reef on the old doorbell. It could be heard resounding through the spacious halls of the palace even through the two feet of smooth-cut stone.
"Ah," Prince William said to his attendant, "it stands an ever present reminder of how long I have been searching. When I was young, this bell was quite new." He sighed and the attendant lowered his eyes respectfully.
"But we must not be glum!" said the Prince with a fierce knitting of his eyebrows. He reached out and yanked the servant's chin up sharply. "NO one has better reason for it than your sovereign Prince, but of course I must bear the burden of setting an example, and being outwardly cheerful, even though the throes of suffering and inhumanity ever throb within my breast!" Prince William thumped his chest proudly. "Look to me, me, ME as your sole role model and dictator, for one day I shall be King of all this land, the mightiest that ever lived!"
In spite of his physical fatigue, William gestured wildly to his impassioned speech; obviously making a great impression on the servant, for he stood frozen with his eyes round as saucers, looking as if he had just swallowed a hairball. Then the door was opened by a maid in white cap and apron. Being informed that His Majesty King Henry and Her Majesty Queen Estella Charmin had long since retired, the Prince was escorted to his royal bedchambers to prepare for an audience with his parents on the morrow.
The pale gleam of dawn that lighted the Prince's vast and elegant room found William in a deep slumber. He lay prostrate, buried in rich folds of silk and satin bedclothes, with a pillow of delicate embroidery over his head and the bed curtains drawn. When the golden rays of morning slanted through the window, his snoring did not cease. Noon approached, and still the wearied traveler slept on. It was not until the maid finally entered at 3:00 in the afternoon to see what was about, that he finally woke. She started when the curtain was thrown back and his tousled head emerged - and mind you she was not the first one to be frightened by those glittering black eyes.
"What do you want?" the Prince snapped hoarsely. The maid dropped a nervous curtsy.
"If it pleases Your Grace, your mother the Queen wonders why you have not presented yourself in the throne room." She curtseyed again. William passed a hand over his eyes and groaned dramatically. "Tell Her Majesty that I will be down in the course of an hour." He waved his hand. "Now be gone!" The maid fled, leaving William quite alone. Rubbing his eyes, he rolled out of the bed and stood before his dressing mirror, sizing himself up. A high forehead, heavy eyebrows, thin, tyrannical lips, a prominent chin, and, of course, a pair of very sharp and cynical eyes – they were all attributes of a handsome prince, and this certain Prince had them all. Why wouldn't a princess be taken with him? Well, perhaps his finely shaped roman nose had a slight crook in it, but other than that, William considered himself a celebrity. He could not possibly have thought anything else, because every princess was taken with him. Every one he had ever met simply fell at his feet and groveled. But, in his opinion, they were all too simple or too pompous, too dull or too energetic, too short or too tall, too shallow or too pious, too fat or too thin, and above all, they mustn't be too poor. It was William's chief end to attain a wife with a generous – very generous – dowry. And no one could be richer than Princess Anastasia Beautee, the only daughter of the most powerful rulers in the world.
William glowered at himself and swept a handful of dark, wispy hair out of eyes. It seemed that every time he had tried to arrange an official meeting with that Princess, King Ferdinand and Queen Larissa Beautee would devise, with cold formality, an appointment or call that so occupied the young Princess at the time, and thus would delay his audience. Nothing could have further convinced him that he was desperately in love with this Princess Anastasia. If she was that hard to get, she must be worth getting. Despite her parents' resistance (heaven knows why they resisted, what better match could they make for their young heiress?) he would get her. Somehow.
When Prince William's attendants had dressed him in rich robes of blue and white satin, complete with silken leggings, velvet breeches, and jewel encrusted shoes of the finest leather, he strode down to the throne room, was announced, and bowed low before the King and Queen. Overcome with emotion at seeing her son after so very long, Queen Estella, ooo-ing and ahh-ing, came tripping over to her son and heartily embraced him. She was a stout woman, with a very plain face that seemed invariably out of place amidst the maze of fine jewels and fineries that adorned her head and neck.
"Well son," boomed his father from his ebony throne, "Any luck this time?" William looked up. Except for the once black hair now being a silvery gray, a long, bushy beard, and another thirty years in wrinkles added to his face, the father was the mirrored image of his son.
"No, father," William sighed, "The princesses I met were just as insufficient as always. Did you expect there to be any – luck?"
King Henry frowned severely and stroked his beard. He exchanged a knowing glance with the Queen.
"Son," he began, "We know you have had your heart set on Princess Anastasia, but have you not noticed that they take no interest in you? If they wished that their daughter should be your future Queen, they would say so! In the meantime, King Ferdinand has spoken to me, and he plainly stated that he wants no more interference from you in the decision of whence his daughter should marry. He will make up his mind in due time." The King leaned forward, fixing his eyes intently on his son. "And you, boy, have got to start taking responsibility for your actions! How many perfectly good potential wives have you cast in the wastebasket? You are nearly thirty-four, boy! Look at you! Most Princes are married by the time they reach twenty!" he leaned back in his chair, glowering irritably. Seeing her son's bottled frustration, the Queen's maternal instincts were aroused.
"It isn't as if we don't understand, dear, it's just that…" she looked up at William beseechingly, and pleaded with her sweet, gentle voice, "well, haven't you found anyone that would do?"
"Aw, Mother, you know that I won't settle for just anyone." William pushed his mother away and began pacing, a habit that was custom to him when he was restless. "If one day I am going to rule this country, I need someone who is strong; a real princess who will love me, uphold me and support me, emotionally, physically – through the valley of death and over the mountain of exposure," he coughed, adding under his breath, "and also, perhaps, monetarily."
"Of course, dear," said the Queen, pleased with her son's supposed integrity, "Take your time, and don't be hasty in choosing the right one. I'm very proud of my son."
"But do try and find yourself some sort of wife before your hair turns white, son," said King Henry, still scowling, "It would not be at all respectable for you to ascend the throne without a consort." He waved his hand. "You are dismissed."
When the Prince had left, the king looked over at his wife.
"That boy troubles me, Estella – what it is about him that makes me disbelieve everything he says? His voice and manner seem honest enough, but he has a sarcastic, probing glint in his eye, as if he is testing us or seeing how much he can get away with."
"Oh, Henry, aren't you being just a bit presumptuous? He's only a boy!" said the Queen merrily. The King grunted and slammed his fist down on his wife's armrest.
"A boy! Estella, let us not be naïve - the worm had grown into a serpent before our eyes!"
Queen Estella's smile faded. She drew out her pocket handkerchief and began blowing her nose.
"Oh, Henry, how could you talk about our dear boy that way! Do tell me you didn't mean it! Oh Henry, it breaks my heart to hear you speak like that!" and she broke down into a sentimental heap of snuffles and tears. The King rolled his eyes and leaned his head on his hand, regarding his wife with mingled awe and disgust.
"Alright, alright, turn off the waterworks, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it! Now stop bawling!" Submissively, the Queen wiped her eyes and put on a brave little smile.
"I knew you didn't, dear," she sniffed, "Men are always saying things they don't mean."
"Indeed" growled the King.
Sheep after sheep leaped dreamily over the brook, their hooves barely seeming to touch the ground. As they floated through the pink haze, their wooly faces seemed in a world of bliss higher than any mortal sheep could ever have reached. Such happiness and harmony was exhilarating and quite overwhelming to behold; their pure white fluffiness as if it was being lit on fire with the glories of the morning sunrise; their legs stretched to receive the ground that would forever free them and protect them, for, ah! They were making the leap, the final leap of, of…
Suddenly, a black wolf, the emblem of death, destruction and despair, came flying out of nowhere and dug its claws into the neck of the last sheep making the Leap of Liberation, and down they went, down, down into the pit of death, with the funeral bells clanging all the way…oh when would it end?
Prince William woke with a loud and terrified yell. For a few minutes he panted, wiping the rivets of sweat off his brow and trying to place a barrier between imagination and reality. He had some vague impression that he was that poor sheep, and that fate was preparing to make some heinous end to him. Oh, oh! There were the funeral bells, still ringing! Bounding out of bed, William ran to the bed stand, grabbed a pitcher of icy water, and doused his head with it. Now thoroughly awake, he dried his dripping hair with a towel and listened. Oh, so someone was ringing the doorbell! Ast! To think that The Someone should be calling at this time of night! Why didn't Annie the maid answer the door? That lazy woman, she was probably snoring away this very moment, ignorant of her sovereign Prince's inconvenience.
Scowling and muttering curses under his breath, the Prince threw his dressing gown over his shoulders, shoved on his slippers, and grabbed his hunting rifle from a hook on the wall. As he thumped down the stairs, a fearsome sight to behold, the bell was still ringing.
"If it hasn't roused everyone in this infernal household yet," William thought to himself. Reaching the entryway, he took a firm hold on the latch of one of the double doors, yanked it open a little and shoved the muzzle of his rifle through the crack. A feminine cry of horror and indignation met his startled ears, and the gun was thrust back at him with surprising force, sitting William hard on his rear. A slight figure slipped in and closed the door behind her. She turned, with her hands on her hips, to regard the dumbfounded Prince.
"Is that any way to treat a guest you groveling scoundrel?" she demanded. William blinked and simply stared at her. Apparently it was pouring outside; her wheat-coloured hair was streaming. She was dressed in simple Peasants' garments, but she held her head high, and there was something profound about her eyes – they were like tiny sapphires set on a background of shining ivory. Regarding him with an expression of condescending contempt and disgust, she took the liberty of strolling to a portrait on the wall and inquiring as to who it was.
Prince William's temporary shock giving way to anger, he stood up, dusted off his backside, and strode over to the girl.
"That is my father, King Henry," he hissed, expecting the girl to flop down on her knees and beg pardon. Instead, her revulsion seemingly deepened. She wrinkled up her nose and squinted at the Prince as if sizing him up.
"Good heavens, I had expected young Prince William to be more…comely. Certainly concerning his manners," she said.
The Prince gasped.
"How dare you speak to me in such a manner!" he cried, "I will send you to the dungeon and have your head unless you repent of your assaulting ignorance right this minute!"
A sarcastic smirk pulled at the corner of the girl's mouth and she looked at him through half-closed eyelids.
"Indeed," she said. "Well, what are you standing there for? If you are so low as to answer the door like a common servant, why don't you show me where you guest quarters are? I'm quite exhausted." She yawned widely for effect.
The Prince simply stared with utter horror. What could he do? There was something about this young woman that frightened him and inspired awe.
"Do I have to find them myself?" the girl persisted, yawning again. This was the last straw. The Prince let out a mighty yell, tore at his hair, and fled up the stairs to the safety of his bedroom. The girl stared after him indignantly.
"As if I would even consider a man such as that!" she muttered as she started up a random staircase in search of accommodation, "Well, perhaps he was very much put out at being roused so early in the morning. Perhaps dawn will find him in a better state of temper. I will give him another chance."