If any of the citizens of Scone living in mountains on the Rhubarbarian border had looked out toward the king's highway one fateful summer, they might have caught a glimpse of a stately carriage ambling along, pulled by wooden horses. The wheels of these steeds squeaked as they coasted down inclines, building up enough momentum to zoom up the next slope, then teeter at the crest before the whole process started again.
Occasionally, the owner of this marvelous carriage chose to ride in the open air on his own horse. The gold frame and white gems adorning his small crown gleamed in the warm sunshine, and a regal purple robe with a white trim and a yellow-duck emblem hugged his wide, cylinder figure. On these slopes, his smile was as bright as his glistening crown, and a rather unkingly cry of joy escaped his wide-open mouth as he zipped ahead of his retinue.
"Wheeeeeeeeee!" His delighted scream reverberated over the snow-capped hills. Butterflies of delight filled his stomach with each plummet. This was as fun as a roller coaster — but of course roller coasters had not been invented yet. (The cucumber resolved to have his advisers look into that.)
The riders behind him followed with varying degrees of approval or bemusement.
"King George!" cried Louis, his tomato adviser, after him. "Not so loud! You might alert the Rhub—"
George barely heard him. As his horse barreled up the next slope, he looked over his shoulder toward the little asparagus in spoon-covered armor riding alongside Louis.
"Thomas, you gotta try this!" he beamed. "Race ya!"
Thomas's round eyes gleamed. He leaned forward, urging his horse to speed up, and he soon caught up to the king. Though young, Thomas had already proven himself as a war hero. Thomas and the king were now great friends, and for his valor in battle, George had promoted the young man to captain of his palace guards.
As the two friends raced ahead of the guards and attendants, Louis exhaled. "At least he'll tucker himself out eventually…"
It was Thomas who finally convinced the king to calm down. As they reached a bend overlooking a lush valley, the young captain made a wild grab for the king's reins.
"Wait!" His once playful eyes grew alarmed. "I remember this area, King George!"
The king quickly jerked harder on the reins, which caused a mechanism inside his wooden horse to apply the brakes. The cucumber turned to his friend with an expression mingling concern and dismay.
"Oh, uh, you were here before…?"
Thomas's energetic demeanor grew quiet, and he looked smaller. "Heading toward the front lines…"
George swallowed, averting his gaze. An image flashed across his mind: Thomas blinking blearily, covered in blueberry pie, and screaming about phantom pastries bombarding his squadron mates. George cringed at the memory and drew himself up, adapting a regal calmness that belied the crashing waves of guilt.
"We will proceed with caution then," he said, his adenoidal voice taking on the tone he used for public speeches and royal commands.
Using the reins to keep the horses at a slow, steady pace, George and his retinue descended into the green valley. Evergreens clustered one side, partially hiding a lake, and within a stone's throw was the recognizable duck-themed tents of the king's army.
George scanned the company, a hundred veggie and fruit soldiers who were practicing drills in anticipation of his appearance. Throughout his childhood and for much of his adult life, George had found war and armies boring, preferring a hot bubble bath and the company of a squeaky rubber ducky. He had barely cared whether his kingdom would win the decades-old war with Rhubarb, leaving that for "stuffy" people like Louis to figure out. Yet George knew he could not live that way anymore. Ever since he had had a much needed wake-up call a few weeks back, he had organized a royal tour to inspect his weary troops and give them morale support (and a few rubber duckies, if anyone wanted them).
The royal tour had been a success thus far. George's favorite general, Cedric, accompanied the party and helped them navigate the war zone safely. Louis took notes about every place they visited and handled the royal suggestion box which the Sconian soldiers filled up. George addressed the men, thanking them for their hard work and enduring loyalty, and he personally handed out duckies as he went down the lines.
As George and his party approached, a look-out trumpeted the five notes which announced a king's entrance. A captain's voice echoed out commands, and the drilling soldiers halted and spun smartly, forming new lines to greet their liege.
George halted his horse at a reasonable distance and allowed Cedric to ride forward to address the captain hurrying over. Louis, meanwhile, took over managing the servants in their company, who would soon be pitching the royal tent and bringing out the yellow duckies for distribution. That just left Thomas and the guards with the king.
George noticed a fairly large tent to the side of the ones which the soldiers used for sleeping.
"Is that the mess tent?" George whispered to Thomas. "I'm getting kinda hungry."
"Not quite," Thomas answered. "See how it's right next to the catapult? That's the armory full of pies."
"Ah." George nodded approvingly.
The Great Pie War had been fought with pastries since the days of his great-grandfather. (It was in the name, after all.) Military bakers were some of the most important members of the armed forces, followed closely by ice-cream makers for those à la mode instruments of warfare. Flour, eggs, and blueberry filling were in constant demand on both sides, not to mention whipped cream and other toppings.
As George mulled over the economics of food-based warfare, Cedric marched briskly up to his horse.
"Company ready for royal inspection, Sire," the slender scallion bowed.
"Very good, Cedric," George replied, but his smile vanished when his stomach rumbled. He coughed slightly. "But first, is it possible to grab some lunch while we're inspecting?"
"I'll look into it, Sire."
He turned about-face, returning to the waiting captain. George saw the captain's mustache twitched, and he whispered something to Cedric, whose face immediately seemed to grow a little less verdant. He cleared his throat and hurried back to the king.
"There, uh, seems to be a slight problem with the lunch plans," he began, bowing quickly. "The men have very little food left, Sire, save for their pies, and if they eat those, they'll be helpless if the Rhubarbarians ambush them."
George frowned. "That's not good."
"My apologies for this oversight." Cedric bowed again. "Rest assured, we will find something fitting for Your Majesty's consumption."
George, however, shook his head. "Don't worry about me eating, Cedric. My men need something yummy if they're gonna keep guarding the border."
"Well said, Sire," Lucas whispered at his side.
George knitted his hairless brow in thought. "Cedric, are there any farms or villages nearby?"
"Well, Trifle Manor is on the other side of that mountain ridge." His general gestured with his head.
"Oh, the Count of Trifle has a good farm from what I understand," Lucas said. "The valley's soil can make anything grow, or they say."
Cedric nodded. "Some of the men helped guard the count's field hands the other day while they worked. The captain said the farm's bounty is plentiful."
"Then the Count of Trifle might be grateful enough to the king's army to spare a few supplies," George reasoned. "Lucas, draft me a letter asking the count for some supper for my soldiers, and I'll put the royal seal on it."
Lucas bowed and hurried to his satchel where he kept the royal stationery.
Count Donald was in the habit of rising late and often took his breakfast in the forenoon hours. While he dined in the morning room, he summoned his young wife, Charlotte, to discuss important business.
"How are the preparations for my party coming along?" he grumbled as he cracked his hard-boiled egg nestled in its porcelain holder. He was a large zucchini with a ring of white hair and thick white eyebrows, and everything he wore, including his maroon dressing gown, was stitched by the finest tailors in Scone. "This needs to be better than the blow-out I threw last month."
"We've ordered enough food to feed a few armies, darling," said his wife mildly.
She always spoke in a calm, almost emotionless voice when addressing her husband. Count Donald sometimes found it annoying, but he tolerated it today. Though he seldom admitted it aloud, Charlotte was great at organizing, and his cronies praised her skills as a hostess. It also helped that his countess was downright gorgeous, far lovelier than the other noblewomen in the area. She was a green rhubarb with gentle, wise eyes colored with pink eye shadow, full red lips, orange-red hair styled usually in a long braid, and always wore fashionable earrings. She was the toast of every party, and if Count Donald wanted his friends to drop dead from jealousy, then his beautiful, composed wife was a useful weapon in his arsenal.
"Are the two-foot hoagies here yet?" Count Donald asked.
"They're due to arrive, fresh, at any moment."
"And the nachos?"
"We have ten barrels full of tortilla chips and cauldrons of cheese sauce ready, along with guacamole, salsa, and sour cream."
"And jalapeños?" Count Donald demanded.
"But of course, darling." She tilted her head and, just as her husband opened his mouth to question her further, added, "And the dessert buffet is coming along quite nicely. The chef is using my recipe for strawberry charlotte as the signature dish. It'll be a sweet surprise."
Donald gave her a deadpanned look. "You know how I feel about hearing puns before I've finished my coffee, Charlotte."
He lifted his gold-trimmed ceramic cup for emphasis. His mocha cappuccino had been barely touched.
The modicum of levity in his wife's eyes receded. "Yes, darling."
"That'll be all then," he sniffed, dismissing her with a wave of his napkin, "for now."
"Very well, darling," she said, still in that near monotone. She sauntered from the morning room, and the door had hardly closed behind her before a knock sounded.
The count told the newcomer to enter, and his asparagus butler, James, stepped inside, wearing an awed expression.
"My lord," the usually dignified James began with a bow of his head, "soldiers are here to see you with a missive from King George!"
"King George?" He blinked. "With a letter for me?"
"Yes, sir," James said, inclining his head again. "Shall I show them in?"
"No point in leaving them outside," the count deadpanned.
As James slipped out, Donald swept a quick glance over the morning room and relaxed a little, satisfied by his display of wealth. His mullion windows were as clear as air; his golden candlesticks gleamed, and the crystal chandelier sparkled, and even the knickknacks which Charlotte collected looked expensive and polished. If these soldiers were legit, maybe they would sing Count Donald's praises in the king's ear, and the whole kingdom would know how well off he really was.
Moments later, however, Count Donald found himself frowning. He expected several high-ranking officers, at least one general, to enter in spoon-covered armor with plumes on their helmets. Instead, a single juvenile asparagus wearing a pie plate bowed respectfully in front of his breakfast table.
"Good morning, Your Countship," the young man chirruped. "I'm Captain Thomas Asparagus, and I bring you a letter from His Majesty with his best wishes."
The sprout held out a sealed envelope, wearing a sunny smile.
Count Donald's white brow furrowed. "Is this some kind of a joke?"
"No, sir!" the so-called captain affirmed. "The king explains it all in the royal letter."
He extended the letter further. Count Donald slowly accepted it. Sweeping one last scrutinizing look at the small vegetable, he reached for his letter opener and broke the royal seal. As he skimmed the neat handwriting, his blood began to boil.
"You want enough of my food to feed some army?" he demanded.
"Not me," the asparagus clarified brightly. "King George wants to take good care of his men down in the valley. He heard about how his soldiers protected your field hands, and so he thought you might like to repay their kindness in his name."
His story matched what the letter said, but Count Donald scoffed.
"Anybody can steal armor," he pointed out. "How do I know this is real?"
"Look at the royal seal on the letter," the sprout answered, nodding to the still intact wax on the lip of the envelope. "King George has been carrying his seal with him since he began touring his kingdom to inspect his troops in case he needs to do something official."
Count Donald barked a laugh. "Now I know you're lying, kiddo. Everybody knows King George sits all day long in the bathtub instead of bothering with his armies. I'd bet my whole feast he's right now playing with his stupid rubber duckies like a toddler back in his palace."
Thomas looked taken aback. "King George isn't like that anymore. Uh, I mean" — he cleared his throat — "I am friends with His Majesty, which is why he sent me in his place. He cares about his troops, and they're hungry, and they can't eat their pies in case the Rhubarbarians—"
"Enough," Count Donald ordered. "I'm throwing a grand banquet tonight, and not a crumb of it is going to go to you pretenders."
"We're not—"
But Count Donald had heard enough from the squirt. He jumped to his feet, towering over the asparagus. "Now, get out before I have my butler throw you out, kiddo."
The asparagus's eyes widened, but he gave no other indication of being alarmed.
"If you give his troops just a bit of food, King George will repay you ten times—"
"James, toss him," Count Donald ordered, turning to the taller asparagus in the corner.
The boy clamped his mouth shut. With a wary look, he turned and fled the room.
George could not believe his ears. When Thomas had arrived at his tent empty handed, his first thought was that the count would be sending supplies later, but his little friend's report was worse than he could have imagined.
Lucas and Cedric, who had been discussing the next leg of their tour with the king, exchanged aghast glances. George, meanwhile, hopped off his chair, stomping right up to Thomas.
"He said I play with my rubber duckies like a toddler?!" he demanded.
"Your stupid rubber duckies," Thomas clarified.
George whirled around and started for the single rubber ducky resting on his travel trunk. It was the only one he had kept for himself after he gave away his extensive collection a few weeks ago. He held his precious toy defensively against his cheek.
"Nobody talks bad about my duck," he growled.
Thomas, who loved his own rubber ducky, nodded with sympathy. Louis, on the other hand, cleared his throat in an effort to change the subject.
"I guess we'll just look around for someone else to help. The Duke of Earl Grey Tea is about a day's march from here—"
"No," George snapped, rounding on him. "This requires royal action!"
Lucas gave him a pained look. "Like what, King George?"
George whirled toward his general. "Cedric, ready the troops! We march in an hour! We will show the Count of Trifle what it means to disrespect the king."
The scallion cleared his throat. "Ah, Sire, are you asking me to do what I think you're asking me to?"
"I'm not asking at all," George answered. "Ready all the pies which the men can spare."
Before Cedric could reply, Thomas spoke up, disturbed. "Are you sure you want to do that, King George?"
George jerked a nod. "If the Count of Trifle is disrespecting the crown during war, then the other nobles will think it's okay to sass their king, and then the peasants will start following their example. Soon, nobody will be obeying royal orders, and in the chaos, the Rhubarbarians could invade Scone. Do you want to see all your loved ones get creamed, Thomas?"
His friend quickly shook his head. "N-No, King George."
"That's why we gotta deal with all this now" — he marched to the entrance of his tent and pulled back a flap, glaring up toward the mountain path — "before we all get pied in our sleep!"
Thomas noisily gulped.
Louis stammered out, "But remember what Melvin the Wiseman said after you sent Thomas to the Pie War—"
"This is bigger than taking somebody's rubber ducky," George snapped. "This is for the good of the king's army and for Scone. Cedric" — turning to the scallion — "ready the pies!"
Cedric swallowed and bowed his head. "As you wish, Sire."
"Like a king," Count Donald told Charlotte as he swept an appraising eye over the grand dining room, which glistened with golden plates and crystal goblets. "I want all our friends and neighbors to say 'That Count Donald lives like a king!' Can you make that happen, Charlotte?"
Charlotte knew better than to roll her eyes. She answered mildly, "We've spared no expense thus far, darling."
"Well, at least hook up the smoke machine in the ballroom," Donald grumbled. "Right now, this party looks like it'll be something a mere duke would throw. Step up your game, woman."
"Have I ever let you down, darling?" Charlotte returned.
"Do you want me to answer that?"
Charlotte held her tongue, stepping away. "I'll tell James to set up the piñatas."
"See that you do."
"Cheer up, darling," she advised. "You are sure to have nothing to complain about."
"It's my party, and I'll gripe if I want to," Donald retorted before he left to inspect the outdoor decorations.
When her husband was out of earshot, Charlotte exhaled, doing her best to keep her composure just a little longer. Donald's pride rested on this party; he intended to show off his vast wealth to his cronies from far and near, flaunting his prosperity in the face of war. If the festivities did not meet his expectations, the whole house would be hearing about it, from Charlotte right down to the lowly scullery maids in the kitchens. For the sake of her household, Charlotte intended to do everything she could to spare her servants from their master's displeasure.
"Lord, give me the grace to get through today," she prayed under her breath. She inhaled, counted to ten, and picked up a scroll which Donald had left on the table. Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed a quill and began to check off the list her husband had written.
"The Countess of Trifle must not grow weary with trifles," she hummed to herself, as she went about her pre-party hostess duties. It was a little tune she was continually crafting throughout her marriage; nearly every other day with Donald brought new inspiration for a tweak or another verse until Charlotte fancied she could have made a decent song-and-dance number out of it.
She had her pea footmen set up the smoke machines, had the celery footmen string up more paper lanterns in the Elizabethan gardens, had the carrot maids re-polish the mirrors in the ballroom, doubled checked every spoon to make sure it glistened, made sure the harpsichord was tuned for baroque-style karaoke later, and at least fifty more tasks. As she checked the new gold-and-silver sofas in the sitting room, the door opened, and James, the butler, poked his head in.
"M'lady! A word, please!" he cried, sotto voce.
Charlotte was at once alarmed. James was a high-caliber sort of butler, who observed rituals and decorum to a T. The fact he would address her so abruptly, without even bowing his green head once, spoke volumes of his mental state. Charlotte hurried to meet him in the hall where Timmy, one of the field hands, stood with his hat removed. He looked like he had been running. He quickly bobbed his head.
"Timothy, relate to her ladyship what you just shared with me," James ordered.
"Countess, we're in for it now!" the yellow scallion groaned. "The king will do us all in, sure as ferrets are ferrets!"
"King George?" Charlotte's eyes widened. "The king is here?"
"Down in the valley, m'lady, with his hungry army," Timmy answered, nodding in the general direction behind him. "Some soldiers showed up, askin' his lordship for some food for the king's army, and his lordship turned them away, but the soldiers helped us out in the fields!" he cried. "They watched our backs when we was afraid of the Rhubarbarians, they did! The king is gonna be mad when he hears what the count said!"
"I believe you, Timmy," Charlotte said faintly, staggering a little. She could believe Donald would turn away soldiers without giving them a chance to prove they came in the king's name — and to disrespect one who acted in the king's name was to disrespect the king himself. King George was within his rights under Sconian law to deal out swift justice.
Which meant Charlotte had not a moment to lose.
"Timmy, go down to the carriage house and tell the groom I need all the wagons hitched up," she ordered, squaring her narrow shoulders. As the field hand hurried off, Charlotte spun towards the staircase which led to the downstairs regions where many of the house servants lived and worked.
"James, help me organize the party food in the kitchen. Hopefully, we won't be too late!"
Each of the assembled soldiers had a pie at the ready. Mounted on his wooden horse, George watched as Cedric inspected the troops. Thomas and Louis were on their horses as well. Their expressions were as gloomy as George's countenance was stormy. When the scallion general was satisfied, he marched smartly to his monarch.
"Company ready, Sire!" Cedric said, touching a spoon against his forehead in lieu of a salute.
"It's not too late to change your mind, King George," Thomas whispered.
"This is for the greater good, Thomas," George said coldly. He raised his royal scepter.
Cedric immediately spun and barked out an order. "Company-y-y, forwa-a-ard, MARCH!"
As one, all the vegetables advanced to the formidable marching beat which the drummers played. George's attendants began to push the royal horse forward.
"This is for the best," George muttered to himself. "Every guy on Trifle lands will have a pie in their face by morning, or my name isn't—"
"King George, look!" Louis sat up in his saddle.
George looked up, and his mouth fell open slightly.
Rounding the bend of the mountain path was a troop of vegetables navigating wagons stacked high with boxes of varying sizes. Some larger veggies, like mushrooms, pickles and carrots, carried sacks and large containers while the smaller veggies, like peas and grapes, steered the wagons and made sure none of their cargo tumbled off. At the front, a young noblewoman in a blue gown rode sidesaddle on a wooden horse, which an asparagus servant steadied for her on the incline. A glimpse of a red braid swung behind her stalk with each jerk of her ligneous steed.
George slowed his own horse, gawking at the sight. Cedric quickly barked at the men to halt, and the drummers fell silent.
"Who could that be?" George asked.
Before anyone could reply, the wagons stopped within four yards of the king, and the rhubarb lady hopped off her horse and sprinted toward George, her fashionable earrings glinting in the sunshine. As soon as she was near enough, she dropped into a deep curtsy, almost toppling onto her face.
"Your pardon, Your Majesty!" she cried humbly. "Please grant me a royal pardon!"
"What did you do?" George asked, bewildered. "You don't look like a criminal."
"It's all my fault," she insisted. "I didn't know your men had come to ask for food and supplies. If they had spoken to me instead of the count, they would have gotten everything they needed. Allow me now to fix this mistake and grant me pardon, Sire."
"She must be the count's wife," Louis said softly, scooting his horse alongside George. As the king's adviser, Louis knew all the names of the nobles and gentry, and he adeptly supplied the name of this penitent, pulchritudinous lady. "That's Countess Charlotte of Trifle!"
George's stomach dropped. "Oh?"
The countess raised her head, still keeping her deferential eyes low. "I've brought as much food as we can spare, Sire. Please accept it with my sincerest apologies."
She motioned for one of her servants to step forward. A carrot housemaid approached with a bowed head, holding out a box of powdered donuts. A second carrot carried a plate of barbecue wings. A third had a six-pack of root beer.
"I hope it all meets your satisfaction, my king," said the countess.
George surveyed the delicious victuals. The aroma of the barbecue wings tickled his nose and made his empty stomach rumble. Then his gaze trailed to the wagons loaded with all sorts of food boxes, and the breeze carried their mouth-watering fragrance toward him. He looked again at the humble, earnest countess, still with a reverent expression.
Then he turned in his saddle, looking back at his army, all geared to lay waste on a civilian's land. Ice crept down George's back, and it was then that the full weight of what he had almost done fell upon him.
A shudder passed through him. If Countess Charlotte had been just fifteen minutes late…
George cleared his throat, not looking at the imploring lady before him. "I, uh, may have overreacted. Just a tad…"
Ten minutes later, George, Louis and the countess watched as the soldiers feasted upon the wonderful entrees and snacks. Chip bags popped open, and Pringles rained down into bowls to be passed around. Several two-foot hoagies were divided into equal parts, and globs of coleslaw and potato salad plopped onto waiting plates. The countess had even thoughtfully added healthy bowls of fruit salad and platters of celery sticks to go with fifty containers of piping-hot buffalo wings.
"Quite a smorgasbord," George said slowly.
"It was the best I could do on short notice," the countess replied, apologetic. She sat on his right hand as his guest of honor.
"It's a king's table," he assured her. He had already filled up a plate of his own, but he did not have much of an appetite now. His heart still smote him whenever he remembered what he had been willing to do.
God sent her to stop me from making a huge mistake, he told himself. He was both humbled and relieved by God's continual mercy toward him.
He gazed at the pieces of chicken on his plate and pushed them around with his fork. A pile of his favorite cheese puffs sat on one side next to a serving of guacamole and tortilla chips. After picking at the repast for which he had almost attacked innocent men, he pushed his plate forward and stood. He smiled weakly at his generous companion.
"Countess, let's walk and talk."
She inclined her head. "It'd be my honor, Sire."
Side by side, they strolled along the perimeter of the camp within the cool shade of the forest. The countess pulled out a pretty lace fan which gently fluttered in her invisible grasp. Louis followed at a respectful distance, ready to attend to the king if necessary. Clouds rolled by, unperturbed by the war raging beyond the mountain peaks.
"Aren't you afraid, living so close to the Rhubarbarian border?" George asked. "You guys ought to move away."
"My husband will not leave his holdings for the Rhubarbarians to claim," the countess said mildly. "As for me, I trust God to be faithful in His protection."
"Like today," George said in a low voice.
The countess only smiled.
A zephyr played with the verdant leaves above their heads, changing the umbrageous patterns on the grass. The countess tilted her head up toward the breeze as if accepting a kiss from an old friend. George's gaze trailed over the gentle curves of her face, taking in her light-green complexion, pink-shadowed eyes, and red lips. It occurred to him, briefly, that his companion was unusually beautiful, but more importantly, she had a lovely heart, the kind that would not hold a grudge against him.
"How did you end up married to a guy like that count?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.
The countess gave her fan a flick. "He found my dowry charming and asked my father for my hand. Papa liked the idea of me being a countess and said yes."
"Ah." George nodded slowly. His own father had almost dealt with him in the same manner for the sake of treaties; fortunately, none of George's engagements ever came to fruition, and he had assumed the throne before his father could finally force him into an arranged marriage.
"So, your family lives in the area?" he asked.
"No," she said with a shake of her head. "The count and my father met when we were last at court."
George formed a lopsided grin. "When were you last at court, Countess? I think I'd remember your face."
"I was introduced during the reign of His Majesty, your royal father," she replied. "My first and last time, unfortunately."
"Ah, I, uh, must have been busy that day," he mumbled, tugging at his collar. He could guess what he had been doing. Whenever his father received young nobles making their debuts at court, George would shirk his duties as crown prince to take baths, which he had found far more entertaining. If he had known such a remarkable personage was downstairs in the throne room, George might have abandoned his royal bubbles and rubber ducky to greet her.
They reached a clear lake which accurately reflected the blue sky and lazy clouds. Smooth rocks dotted the shore in such abundance that George reckoned they could have built a children's fort. Countess Charlotte lifted her blue skirt, studying the stones until she selected a skinny one. With a casual flick, she sent it hopping over the reflective water, making the clouds look like a rippled mess. The stone made six skips before disappearing beneath the surface.
"Ooh, nice!" George cheered.
Her eyes twinkled. "All in the wrist."
George's gaze darted about the shore for a smooth rock of his own, and he selected one just the size he remembered favoring. He flicked it, and it made five splashes before sinking from view.
"Excellent range, Sire!"
"Aw, I'm a little rusty." George shrugged modestly. "I haven't skipped stones since I was a little prince."
She picked up another stone and held it out toward him. "Practice makes perfect."
Grinning, George threw the rock, and it skipped one splash further, and the next one which the countess handed him went further than that. Soon they were scouring the shoreline for suitable stones, laughing and groaning over their successes and premature sinking. Louis picked a few stones for George, but the king almost exclusively accepted the offerings from Countess Charlotte. George, however, managed to find on his own two perfectly shaped stones lying side by side, and he offered the countess one. As she accepted it, her invisible grip brushed against his own. For some reason, that made a warm little shiver pass through George.
"You know," George said, glancing quickly out at the rippling lake, "not many noble ladies like to skip stones."
"Then I'm glad to be so distinguished," the countess grinned, lazily chucking the rock and sending it twelve skips.
"You're an awfully fun friend to have around," George complimented.
She bowed her head modestly. "And I hope Your Majesty will always think of me as a friend the next time you are in need of a hand."
George looked away. Somehow, her kindness stung more than a slap across the face.
Swallowing, he tossed his rock from one invisible grasp to the other. "Countess…"
She looked up. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
George shifted, wanting to be dignified and regal as a king ought to present himself, but he felt humbled by her kindness. He hung his head.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I acted foolishly and almost gave you a lot to grieve about today."
She gave him a look brimming with compassion. "Water under the bridge, Your Majesty. You've been under a lot of stress."
"That doesn't justify what I almost did," he sighed. "If you hadn't shown up…"
He swallowed, looking away.
"As far as men with tempers go, you're one of the more reasonable ones I've met." She inclined her head, only kindness on her face. "I am glad everything worked out, Sire. The Lord is good."
"He sure is," George replied in a low voice.
She took a step toward him, tilting her head so that she could meet his downcast eyes. "And He is rich in mercy. If He can forgive me for all the things I've done, then He can forgive you — and He expects me to forgive you, so I do."
George gave her a lopsided grin. "A great gal like you doing bad stuff? I don't believe it."
She smiled wryly.
"Oh, trust me. I need forgiveness, just like everybody else." She bobbed her head back toward the feasting veggies. "Technically, I took all this food without discussing it with my husband first. He's throwing a party tonight and might wonder why some of his finger foods are missing."
"Well, I won't hold it against you, Countess."
She nodded, then peered up at the sky toward the sun, half hidden by clouds.
"I shall have to get home soon," she remarked. "The count needs me to help with his party."
"Do you want me to send some soldiers to escort you back?" George offered. "It's dangerous around these parts."
"We'll be fine. It's not that far." She bowed her head. "But before I leave, I would be honored if Your Majesty would accept a dessert made from my own recipe."
George grinned. "The honor is mine, Countess."
With the half-forgotten Louis trailing behind them, the two headed back to the royal table. Once George sat, the countess addressed the asparagus butler, who had hurried over from serving two soldiers to assist his lady.
"James, the royal dessert, if you please."
The asparagus brightened and made a beeline for one of the baskets. Within minutes, he reverently placed a plate in front of George. A pink trifle-like filling sat inside a golden crust like a tart, and a sliced strawberry daintily topped the crest.
George smiled at the yummy dessert. "Strawberry charlotte?"
"I've always had a weakness for wordplay," the countess remarked.
George dipped his spoon into the trifle filling and raised it toward her in toast. "How sweet."
Her eyes sparkled. "Your Majesty is a sweetheart for saying so."
George slowly smirked. "Careful, Countess. You don't want to sugar rush into a pun war with your king."
The countess tilted her head. "Maybe not. I wouldn't want to be royally pun-ished, Sire."
George lowered his fork, his large eyes gleaming. "Okay, you asked for it."
Neither gave the other quarter, letting puns fly as though they were catapulting pies. George had studied wordplay at the feet of his father's old court jester, and he could dish out quips as if they were ice cream on à la mode desserts. The countess remarkably held her own, whipping up enough food puns to service the whole army.
Listening at a distance, Louis looked heavenward.
"Cobblers to the face are less painful," he said under his breath.
An hour later, with their battle ended in a drawl (and mutual respect), George walked the countess back to her horse. James came forward to help her mount, but George calmly gestured him away and personally lifted the countess onto the saddle. While James organized the other servants for the return trip, George and the countess said their farewells.
"Will I ever see you again?" George asked.
"The next time Your Majesty comes this way, I hope you'll allow us to show our hospitality," she smiled.
"And I'll hope you'll make your second ever appearance at court someday, Countess," he returned. "Then I can treat you royally."
She dipped her head into a bow of acquiesce. Soon the party was ready, and they started back up the incline toward Trifle Manor. George followed the countess with his eyes until she disappeared around the bend.
A soft sigh slipped through his green lips.
"She's quite a lady," said a voice by his nonexistent feet.
George jolted. He had forgotten Louis had been following them this whole time. George straightened his crown, recovering his composure.
"One in a million," he agreed, starting back toward his tent.
Louis followed by his side. "Not many soldiers would dare what she did today."
"She's really brave. And wise — and generous — and kind." A vision of her charming smile flashed across George's mind. "Awfully pretty too…"
Louis looked at him sharply. "No."
George turned, confused. "What?"
"Please, no. Just no."
"What are you talking about?" George questioned.
"Didn't you learn your lesson with Thomas's ducky?" Louis demanded, raising himself up as far as his round form would let him. "There are some lines even a king can't cross."
Realization clicked in George's mind. He staggered back, appalled at the insinuation. "Louis, it's not like that!"
"Oh, no?" Louis challenged.
Heating, George spun away. "I can say a countess is pretty without it meaning 'Wow, I wanna take a married woman for myself.' Give me some credit, Louis."
"Good," Louis clipped. "Just remember that bad things can happen to kings who almost break the Seventh Commandment. Look at what happened to the Pharaoh and King Abimelech when they unknowingly took Sarah from her husband."
"I wouldn't do that, Louis," George insisted, frowning. "And mind your tone when addressing your king."
"My apologies." Louis receded back to his original shape, bobbing his head, but his eyes remained stern.
George tossed his head back. "And if you're gonna be so deep in my business, why don't you do something useful, like take stock of the leftovers or something, huh?"
"Very well." Louis bowed, retreating a step.
"Oh, and later, we have to send the countess a thank-you note," George decided.
"Yes, King George," Louis said stiffly before he headed off.
Alone, George let out a slow breath, aware of a sudden knot in his stomach. His mind drifted back to all the fun he had enjoyed with Countess Charlotte — innocent fun, he was sure. Pretty sure. It had been a long time since George had enjoyed a playdate with someone other than a rubber ducky. Countess Charlotte wasn't just fun either: she had so many qualities which George could admire and aspire to obtain. He already looked forward to their next meeting, whenever that could be.
…Yet he knew the way his heart raced when he thought of her had nothing to do with all the sugar he had consumed.
Grimacing, he quietly retreated to the privacy of his royal tent. With a sigh, George raised his eyes to heaven, addressing an even higher King.
"Thank You," he began, "for sending her to stop me, just like You sent Melvin after I hurt Thomas. I keep messing up, but You still care about me, so thanks for that."
George smiled weakly. "I haven't been much of a king, and I wasn't much of a crown prince. If I wasn't so selfish back then, and actually got outta the bathtub once in a while, Countess Charlotte and I could've become friends years ago. Maybe even…"
He trailed off, shaking himself. "The point is, I haven't always been responsible, and I'm still learning to think of others first, so please help me get better and better, and please forgive me for today. Thank you."
He almost said "Amen" right there, but his mind drifted back to the lake and the stone flying across the surface.
"I had a lot of fun with her," he admitted to his King, "and as long as she's married, I want to think of her as a good friend only. Even so…" He took a deep breath. "If I'm going to be a responsible king, I have to find a queen eventually, right? That's what Father was always talking about, but I didn't like any of the princesses he tried to fix me up with. Maybe if they liked skipping stones and puns…"
He shook himself again, not wanting to think such things when he was talking to God.
"…It's not bad to say I wouldn't mind a queen who is like Countess Charlotte, right?" he asked, uncertain. "Somebody I can just hang out with and play games with, but who will also be good for my kingdom and help me make good decisions, you know? Well, of course You do" — with a sheepish chuckle. "When it's time for me to find my queen, please let her be awesome. The full Monty. The bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. Better than a hundred duckies."
He bowed his head and thanked his King in advance.
The sun set behind the mountains, and Donald's guests were due to arrive soon. Charlotte sat at her vanity in her bed chamber, putting on the last touches of makeup, but she could barely concentrate.
Her mind kept altering between two different thoughts. One moment, she would be back by the forest, talking with King George after the averted disaster. The next, she imagined herself downstairs when Donald discovered that some of the party food was missing from the buffet table. That meant an argument, and she did not know if she would have the mental strength to deal with yet another one of Donald's churlish tantrums. Yet if she had the chance, she would have done it all over again to protect her household from the king's wrath. Donald's bad attitude was nothing compared to what could have happened.
When I was first married. I used to think God had abandoned me because He let my father arrange a marriage to someone like Donald, she reflected. She later understood she was not forsaken. She had been able to protect servants from being turned out of the house without wages. She had nursed sick children on their lands, and she had given food and clothing to the poor. God always seemed to place her at the right place at the right time, and today's adventure was just further proof. If all she had done with her life was rescue her household from the king's wrath, then her marriage was worth it — even if her partner in life left something to be desired.
But imagine if someone like the king had asked to court me before Donald had, she reflected sadly. She had had more fun just talking and skipping stones with the king than in the past few years with Donald. If a kind, playful nobleman — or crown prince — had offered his suit before Count Donald, how might her life be like now?
…Yet she pushed the thought away. What little amiability between her and her husband may have died out years ago, but she would not dishonor herself before God by entertaining fantasies which she knew would not please Him. She had made her vows to Donald, and they were binding before the court of Heaven.
She met her somber eyes in the mirror and washed her face free of negative emotions.
"Donald wants to throw a party fit for a king," she told her now hospitable reflection. "Time to do your duty, Countess."
The party was royally extravagant. The noble guests feasted and danced well into the night. As twilight lightened the night sky, the blow-out finally ended. Donald trudged into his private sitting room, leaving Charlotte to be the dutiful hostess and bid the lords and ladies farewell. When the last carriage disappeared through the gates, Charlotte started up the stairs, intending to retire, but one of the young servants hurried toward her, bowing his head.
"Madam, the count wishes to see you."
"Of course," said Charlotte tiredly, abandoning the staircase and thoughts of her down pillows. She soon reached her husband's sitting room and knocked once before entering.
"You called, darling?" she addressed the count as she closed the door behind her
Donald sat at his desk, frowning over his ledgers. "Charlotte, did you talk to the caterer earlier?"
Charlotte kept her expression neutral, guessing what was bothering him. "But of course, darling."
"And you told him we wanted a top-notched party, right?"
"He knows what you like, darling."
"Yeah, right," Donald grumbled. "That buffet table looked pitiful. I could have sworn I told him to make a lot more hoagies for this shindig."
"Oh, you did, darling."
"Then where did it all disappear to?" he demanded. He shot her a suspicious look. "You didn't donate my dinner to the poorhouse again, did you?"
"Of course not, darling," she said truthfully. She gave her decorative fan a slow flap. "I gave it to King George and his army."
He bolted to his feet. "You did what?"
"The king required substance for himself and his men," Charlotte replied. "As a loyal citizen of Scone, I gave His Majesty as much as I thought they'd require."
Donald took a step toward her. "You gave strangers claiming to be from the king my hoagies?"
Charlotte maintained her equanimity. "And donuts, root beer, barbecue and buffalo wings, and some fruit salad, for starters. His Majesty was grateful."
"You— You—" Donald made a strangled sound. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to fly at her and shake her silly, but before he could even form a proper retort, a war-like cry rang out from outside the manor, followed by the shouts of the sentinels.
Before either Charlotte or Donald could respond to the commotion, a rhubarb pie broke through the mullioned window, sending a burst of glass across the carpet.
Donald whirled around in time to see the lethal missile hurtling toward him. It struck him right in the face, knocking him to the ground.
George could barely lie still on his royal mattress. After a few hours, he gave up and rang for his page. Nursing a mug of cocoa from the supplies which the countess had left, he played Tic-Tac-Toe against himself by candlelight until Louis's humble inquiry at the entrance asked if the king was okay. George gave him leave to enter, and they played checkers and Hungry, Hungry Hippos for the rest of the night. As dawn began to sneak its way over the camp, and the night guard was relieved, an alarmed voice cried from outside the king's tent.
"Your pardon, Sire! It's quite urgent!"
George and Louis looked up from their board and exchanged glances.
"Cedric?" George called. "Come on in."
The spoon-clad scallion slipped through the flaps and bowed. "Sire, we just received word from a servant from Trifle Manor!"
George's heart felt like someone had just squeezed it like a lemon. He sat up, nearly knocking over his candle. "What?"
"The Rhubarbarians attacked the manor house less than an hour ago!" Cedric declared. "The Count of Trifle has been creamed!"
"Oh, my!" Louis cried. "That's terrible!"
"Is the countess all right?" George demanded, feeling close to bolting to the manor right then on foot.
"She's fine," Cedric replied. "Only the count was struck in the whole house."
Relief flooded George. He slumped in his chair. "Oh, thank goodness!"
"Are they going to evacuate the manor?" Louis asked. "The Rhubarbarians may attack again."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said Cedric.
George raised his head, taking charge. "Cedric, send some men to the manor to stand guard for the present, and keep me updated."
"As you wish, Sire." He bowed and hurried to carry out the royal orders.
With his general out of earshot, George let out a relieved sigh.
"She's okay," he murmured, looking up at the candlelit ceiling. "She's safe."
"For now," Louis pointed out. "The count's lands are right on the border. Perhaps we should offer to escort the household to safety while the inheritance issue is sorted out."
"Inheritance?" George repeated, glancing at him.
"If I recall correctly, Count Donald of Trifle has a younger brother," Louis told him, "Viscount Ronald of Trifle. Since Donald and Charlotte were childless, Ronald and his wife will inherit everything."
George nodded, troubled. Even war did not stop legal matters.
"What about Countess Charlotte?" he asked. "What happens to her now?"
"It'll be up to the new count and countess to decide if they wish to keep her in their house," Louis answered. "Otherwise, she might return to her own family. Or enter a convent."
George blinked several times, processing that information. He did not relish the idea of his new friend being at the mercy of her in-laws, who may or may not be as bad as her late husband. He also did not think Charlotte would be too happy to return to her family as a widow, especially if her parents wanted to arrange a second marriage for her.
And he most certainly did not want to see her enter a convent.
George jumped to his feet, bolting toward the exit of his tent. "I'll be back later, Louis," he called over his shoulder before addressing the sentinels outside his tent. "My horse!"
Charlotte had had little chance to rest since the attack. Once the pies stopped cascading upon her home, she had organized the household to repair what they could and take stock of what they had. As for Donald… well, it was easier to have a few servants carry him down to the family crypt for the present until she could focus on what steps to take next. Some kind of funeral had to be arranged, and she also had to notify her brother-in-law of the tragedy.
Upstairs, Charlotte organized the housemaids to pack up the essentials in case they had to flee. She handled her own packing, filling up her travel trunk at the foot of her bed. As she stuffed handkerchiefs and silk stockings into the case, a loud knocking arose on her door.
"Enter," she said without pausing.
A pea servant tumbled into her bedroom, bowing between gasps.
"M'lady — the king! Here! For you!" he cried.
Charlotte dropped her handkerchiefs, spilling them over the rug. "The king?"
"Yes, m'lady!"
Charlotte's heart leapt, with both shock and something she was not about to analyze right then. She started toward the door — then paused, checking her hair in the tall looking-glass, before she hurried down the hall. Only when she reached the staircase did it occur to her that she had been so busy that she had completely forgotten to don something black to mourn Donald. She had no time to turn back, however, because at the bottom of the staircase the king pivoted and looked up at her with his kind eyes.
"My dear countess, there you are," he greeted her with a concerned smile.
Charlotte cleared her throat, giving him a little curtsy on the top step, before descending as gracefully as she could muster despite her sturdy stalk feeling suddenly like jelly. Standing before him, she curtsied again.
"Your Majesty is so kind to visit," she said demurely.
"I just got the news about Count Donald," he replied gently. "How are you holding up?"
"The servants are understandably on edge," she sighed. "We may have to escape, or we may have to prepare for a siege. I'll admit I'm not trained for this sort of situation."
"You're keeping your head," the king pointed out. "That's pretty sensible."
"Necessity makes for a fine ally," she replied, "but I shall accept the compliment anyway. May I get Your Majesty something to drink?"
The king cleared his throat. "Actually, Countess, may we talk somewhere?"
She dipped her head. "Of course, Your Majesty."
She guided him to the downstairs drawing room. She lit the two lamps within and offered the king the best armchair. He did not sit right away, surveying the furnished room. A portrait of Donald's great-great-grandfather hung over the bare fireplace.
"Trifle Manor has been standing for several decades, hasn't it?" he asked, studying the stern-looking zucchini.
"The Trifles are a proud, noble family."
"And with the count gone, everything goes to his nearest relative, right?"
She nodded. "I expect word from my brother-in-law by sundown tomorrow."
"And he'll take over everything," the king said slowly.
"Which is his right," Charlotte said simply.
The king cleared his throat again. "Will you be staying with him? Or going… somewhere else?"
Charlotte blinked slowly. A heavy feeling settled over her stomach.
"I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest," she said bravely. "If my brother- and sister-in-law will let me stay, I have no reason to go anywhere else."
"Are they nicer than Donald?" the king asked quickly.
"Somewhat," Charlotte replied evenly. "They have been kind enough to ignore me most of the time I've met with them, but I do believe they will let me remain here. For a while."
"But you won't be the Countess of Trifle anymore," he pointed out.
"No," she admitted. "That title is now bestowed upon my sister. She may have it with my blessing."
The king maneuvered around the still waiting chair, pausing by the table. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He pulled one of the lamps closer to him, turning it as if fascinated with how the lamplight danced upon the table. When he finally spoke, Charlotte almost did not hear him.
"Would you like a different title?" he squeaked. "A better one?"
Charlotte bowed her head, hoping she was not being presumptuous. The idea of being beholden to Ronald and his wife left her with a sour taste, but if the king was genuinely suggesting something to help her gain a little independence, she would not refuse.
"Your Majesty is very generous to offer a boon to a lowly widow."
"There's nothing lowly about you." He gulped, rather noisily. "I haven't seen one lady at court who is like you."
Charlotte's face warmed with pleasure, and she tried not to look too pleased. "I am sure there are ladies who are more refined, Your Majesty."
"No, no, I mean it," he insisted, turning his head to gaze at her with puppy-like eyes. "I can't think of another lady who would ride up to stop the king's army. You are so brave, Countess. And generous and just plain fun to be around. Why, you're… You're better than a hundred duckies!" he exclaimed passionately.
"...Thank you?" Charlotte was not quite sure how else to respond, but she got the feeling he had just paid her what he considered to be quite a compliment.
"And maybe I'm moving too fast here," he continued, "but I gotta ask — before the new count shows up, or you decide to enter a convent…"
He scooted the best armchair forward, gesturing with his crowned head. "Please sit, Countess."
Bewildered, Charlotte started to protest, but he leveled his imploring gaze with her.
"Please."
She curtsied her consent and slipped onto the seat. The king adjusted his purple robe, then rearranged his crown, before he moved to stand in front of her.
"What I say next isn't me speaking as your king," he began in a low voice, "but as a regular cuke."
She nodded mutely.
He gave his shoulders a shake, looking desperate to find the right words. "Your father picked your husband last time. This time, you get to choose, my lady."
Her mouth fell open. "W-What do you mean?"
He drew himself up. "You said to think of you as a friend the next time I needed a hand, and that's what I want. Your hand — or whatever," he added nervously.
Her heart accelerated, but she could only stare at him blankly.
"If you're not interested, that's fine, but if you are— well, it'd, uh, be really neat," he stammered like a lad asking a maid to dance with him at a fair. "I can't offer you a royal wedding this close to the war zone, but we can do something quiet now. Later on we can throw a big ceremony fit for a queen and give all the peasants cake and gold coins to celebrate."
He waited for an answer, but Charlotte had trouble forming a response. He seemed to wilt.
"Is… Is that something you would be interested in?" he asked, checking her shocked face. "Or could be interested in…?"
Charlotte repeated his jumbled words in her mind, processing them and turning them this way and that. There had to be a mistake, she faintly told herself. Kings did not just offer marriage proposals to dowager countesses they just met. He must have been joking, or perhaps she was too tired from the shock of the Rhubarbarian attack and had heard wrong.
She scanned his countenance for any indication that suggested she was misinterpreting his message, but his large eyes held such earnesty, such frantic affection, that she was inclined to believe he was sincere.
The king had just proposed to her.
And the very thought made her heart lighten. Her dazed mind began to wake up. A smile spread over her red lips.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she said softly. "I will marry you."
Light flooded his face. "Awesome!"
He took a step toward her, pulling her to her feet. She had to steady herself, feeling weak in her knees as she took in his wonderful smile. Lovely butterflies capered inside her to be so close to him. His intangible touch rested against her shoulders — and he quickly withdrew it, looking as though he had no idea what to do next. He averted his gaze, adorably bashful.
"If you had a hand, I would kiss it right about now," he mumbled.
Charlotte demurely pivoted side to side, swishing her full skirt. "You may kiss me instead, Your Majesty."
"I can?" he asked, brightening. "Wow, this just gets better and better!"
A bubbly giggle escaped Charlotte, the kind she had not uttered since before she was married. The king seemed amazed.
"You have a beautiful laugh," he said warmly.
She giggled again. "Your Majesty is kind to say so."
His touch settled upon her shoulders again. "George."
"George," she repeated. She fiddled with her skirt. "And… you may call me Lottie, if you like."
"Lottie," he said slowly. "That's a cute nickname."
"The people I like best call me that," she confided.
His smile stretched. "Lottie."
She had never experienced so much pleasure in hearing her own name before. A tintinnabulation of delight rang through her being, amplified by the gentle weight of his hold on her shoulders. Shyly, she reached for the white trim of his royal robe, then hastily checked his face to see if he was offended.
Wonderfully, he wasn't.
She tightened her hold, affection welling up inside her. With a sheepish but loving smile, the king… George drew her closer to him into a tender hug, resting his head against hers.
She had never imagined she would enjoy an embrace so much.
Before George led Charlotte from Trifle Manor for the last time, she sat at her desk and wrote out impeccable references for all the remaining servants in case they wished to seek employment elsewhere after the new count and countess took over.
The queen-to-be selected a few of her maids to accompany her on the royal tour. James assembled the servants in the entrance hall for her to bid farewell. Even with references from the future queen consort that would open countless doors for them, many of them gave the dowager countess looks which pleaded, "Take us with you."
When all was ready, George sat Charlotte on his saddle, took the reins, and guided her back to his camp as the morning sun climbed toward the crest of the sky. That evening, in a quiet ceremony near the lake, they were married.
THE END
If you hadn't guessed, this was inspired by the account of David and Abigail (see 1 Samuel 25). I had debated on whether or not to do this fic. On the one hand, David met Abigail years before Bathsheba, and I didn't know if I ought to make this a sequel to "King George and the Ducky" for that very reason. On the other hand, while King George is based on David, he is significantly different (compared to Little Joe being Joseph etc). David worked as a shepherd for his dad, Jesse; George was the son of a king. David was Hebrew; George is European. David killed a guy for a pregnant woman; George was willing to get a kid killed for his bath toy.
In the end, I decided to put a disclaimer recognizing that, yes, David met Abigail before Bathsheba, but this isn't meant to be a 1:1 retelling.
