Author's Note: Yet another story that had an update and I'd kind of forgotten about. Huge warning: the updates for this story will be few and far between, since it's not a huge priority right now. Still, I thought that I might as well post this since it was done and I hadn't updated in years. Also, if anyone can tell me why my documents won't save little star things for breaks, let me know. And why won't they indent? I'm uploading like I always did. Le sigh.
Thanks to Rhapsody and Ireland O'Reily for reviewing! I really appreciate it.
Prince Spot rubbed his hands together and quietly cursed his thoughtlessness. Would it honestly have killed you to think to bring a good pair of gloves? he demanded of himself. Of course, I wasn't exactly thinking about warm clothing when I decided to run away. No, not run away, he corrected himself sternly, reminiscent of his elderly Latin tutor. I'm simply taking the only opportunity to see the world before I'm forced into wedlock.
Spot detested the word 'wedlock'. It conjured up images of firm shackles and cramped cages.
Particularly when I will be marrying a lady I haven't even met, he thought and scoffed noisily, as though to emphasize his silent remark, although the only creature near enough to hear him was his stolen horse.
He recalled the week prior, when his parents had first informed him of their intentions to arrange his engagement to the princess of New Jersey. "From what I hear, Princess Spades is a lovely girl," his mother had said in an attempt to pacify him after he loudly refused to take part in such a marriage. "Hazel eyes, dark brown hair that shines with a reddish tint in the sun." Spot, however, was unmoved.
She'll be just like all the rest of them, he thought scornfully. A simpering, fawning idiot with more flattery than sense.
He shook the thought out of his head. "You don't have to worry about that, at least not for the moment," he assured himself. The horse neighed, as though agreeing with his remark.
For the first time in what seemed like months, Spot surprised himself with genuine laughter. He patted the animal on its neck, and chuckled, "Well, I managed to swipe the most intelligent horse in Brooklyn. I hope that is a sign of good things to come."
He immediately wished to take back his words, for the shrill sounds of panicked screams and noisy guffaws of triumph pierced his eardrums. He scowled petulantly, praying that his ears were deceiving him, and slowed his horse to a halt. When the cries did not vanish, he found himself at the edge of a moral precipice.
If I help whoever is in danger, he told himself, silently cursing the people who had gotten themselves in trouble, I'll lose the lead I have over the Brooklyn soldiers. And if they really are that close behind me, they'll be along soon enough to help this injured party in my place. He allowed his horse to talk a single step forward before halting him once again. Damn, he thought angrily, and muttered several ungentlemanly phrases as he rode in the direction of the shouts.
He neared a clearing, where a band of gypsies were evidently raiding a group of carriages. Spot scowled again, wishing that he had taken care of these bandits long ago if only so that he could have prevented this entire situation.
Since he could not fix his past mistakes, he wondered how he was going to take on at least a dozen gypsies single-handedly. He extracted his slingshot from his back pocket, causing him to remember the servant girl who had attacked him earlier that morning. He attempted to ignore both his bruised forehead and his wounded pride. I can't very well run into the middle of the clearing and expect defeat them, he thought. Perhaps if I-
Spot couldn't tell whether the sound of approaching soldiers was a curse or a blessing. He was thankful that they would now take care of the gypsies, but worried that they had caught up to him so quickly.
He caught sight of a tall, slender young woman with a pair of disheveled braids hanging against her back leap onto one of the carriages. "Cheese it!" she cried to her fellow gypsies. "It's the bulls!"
With speeds rivaling lightning, the gypsies gathered as much as they could carry and dashed into the thick forest, disappearing almost immediately. Spot respected their ability to get away so effectively. As the sounds of the soldiers grew closer, he realized that the quickest way out was through the clearing and into the densest part of the forest. He urged his horse forward, and was silently congratulating himself on escaping the soldiers, when, almost out of the clearing, an elderly man leapt in his path.
"Please, sir!" the man besought passionately, his hand at his breast as though he feared his heart would escape just as easily as the gypsies had. "Please help me!"
"The soldiers are nearly here, they will-" Spot began, but the old man swiftly interjected.
"A gypsy has run off with my book! I beg of you, please, help me!"
Spot felt, rather than heard or saw, the soldiers closing in on him. This is your last chance, he told himself as he gazed towards the distant horizon. Then, with a sign of resignation, he turned to the elderly man once again.
"Which way did he go?" he inquired.
The man's eyes flashed with gratitude and relief. "That way! Into the forest!" he instructed, pointing into the woods. Spot nodded and urged his horse in that direction, not even hearing shouts of gratitude that followed him.
As he ducked low branches and guided his horse around thick roots that reached sinuously out of the ground, the prince of Brooklyn resolved to have the soldiers deal with the problem of gypsies immediately. He was not, however, able to develop a thorough plan for this, as he was caught off guard by a rather large marble striking him directly in the forehead.
Why does everyone insist on doing that? he asked himself as he slowed his horse to a halt and glanced around at the seemingly empty forest.
A twig snapped behind him. Slingshot poised to shoot, Spot turned to see a gypsy, with a tome under his arm, cursing his luck and running further into the woods. Spot followed, barely daring to blink lest his lose sight of the gypsy, who had a considerable lead and knowledge of the forest. He shot at the gypsy's nape and cursed himself when he missed by a foot to the left. Resolving to practice his skill with a slingshot, he took aim again and this time hit the young man in the middle of the back. The gypsy yelped in pain and, startled by the sudden sting, tripped. He managed to catch his balance but he stood in vain; Spot and his horse had already caught up with him.
The prince's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he aimed a marble at the center of the gypsy's face. "Hand over the book," he drawled, "especially if you have the burning desire to avoid unnecessary pain."
The gypsy's eyes remained confident despite his realization that he had no way to escape with his prize. "Go to hell," he growled and hurled the book at Spot's head.
His hands still clutching his slingshot, Spot was unprepared for the tome and caught the force of it in the center of his chest. A moment later he found himself sprawled on the damp earth with the book resting on his stomach. The gypsy had managed to disappear in the few seconds that Spot was flying through the air. The princes horse whinnied in amusement as he turned to study his former rider.
"I must be crazy," Spot confessed as he remounted the courser. "Not only did I give up my freedom for a book and a few new bruises, I have now acquired the habit of conversing with my horse." He nudged the horse in the direction of the clearing. "Come on, we have soldiers to face."
(((time break, please help!)))
Swifty, captain of the Royal Guard and the youngest man to hold that position in over a century, shook his head reprovingly at the sight of the disheveled, scowling prince. "Your majesty, I thought you were through with juvenile pranks," he mumbled once Spot was within earshot, keeping his voice low so that the other soldiers would not hear his cavalier attitude towards the heir to the throne of New York.
The prince raised his chin in an uncommonly regal manner. "It wasn't a juvenile prank," he contested. "I thought I would take the opportunity to see the world before I'm practically shackled to someone I haven't even met." His eyes wandered to the elderly man rushing towards the pair. "Unfortunately I was swayed otherwise."
"Thank you, thank you!" the older man shouted, reaching his arms out for the massive book. "I am eternally grateful," he declared, his eyes were focused on the tome rather than the young prince.
"Don't mention it," Spot replied and winced at the memory of falling off of his horse (although he planned not to relate that aspect of the chase to anyone who might care to listen). He raised a curious eyebrow. "What's so important about that book anyway?"
Swifty chuckled quietly before nodding to the elderly man. "Prince Spot, may I introduce Leonardo da Kloppman, scholar, writer, and new artist in residence to the palace of Brooklyn."
Spot's eyes widened slightly. "The Leonardo da Kloppman?" he murmured, unable to conceal his awed surprise.
Da Kloppman nodded calmly, still not looking at the prince. He skimmed carefully through the pages of tidy script before glancing up. "Yes, yes, that's me," he remarked absently, obviously still thinking about the book he clutched with dry, cracking hands. "The king—your father—had invited Dentongelo, but he was too busy writing for King Roosevelt, so here I am."
"Maybe this shows how your father is open to new ideas," the captain remarked hopefully. "Da Kloppman has written some of the most innovative books of our time."
"Let us hope," Spot sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, causing the elderly man to raise a curious eyebrow. Seeing this gesture, the prince continued, "My father still believes that the practice of arranged marriages is a good one."
"Prince Spot is to marry Princess Spades of New Jersey," Swifty added.
Da Kloppman nodded understandingly. "Then I hope I can be of some inspiration," he replied, somewhat laughingly, and climbed back into his carriage.
Spot took this as a sign that the writer wished to continue his journey to the palace. He furrowed his forehead in astonishment and turned to the captain, murmuring, "Not exactly caught up in courtly conduct, is he?" he asked in amusement.
"I thought you weren't impressed with courtiers and all that."
"I'm not. We might as well get back to the palace. I'd rather face the wrath of my parents now, with da Kloppman in tow."
To be continued...please review!