My bare feet beat a panicked tattoo on the carpeted hallways as I run, cursing the moment of laxity that put me a floor above my Prince. My mind flicks back to a different time when I ran barefoot through the palace hallways, heart pounding, thoughts screaming. Ten years old, clad only in a nightshirt, tears of homesickness still wet on my face. Terror in my eyes.
I had been lying on my side on the narrow bunk, staring out the window as if the strength of my glance would conjure up my family, laughing and happy, as they had been before the Plague came. But no vision soothed my eyes, and nothing but the gentle snores of the other soldiers – all grown men –reached my ears. All I could think of was how Papa had snored like that, before he died, and the grief within me threatened to burst out. I got up and opened the window, letting the cool night air wash over me. As I stood there, a faint chuckle had floated to me on the breeze. Then another, and then such a happy little gurgle! I went back to my bunk, and lay down, and listened, thinking of my little brother who had made such sounds before he died of the Plague, and I wept.
Perhaps a few hours later, I woke abruptly. Something had changed. I sat up, listening, until it came again. It was just a giggle, but there was something about it that made me scramble out of bed. I had buckled on my sword belt when it came again, and this time I did not wait even to slip on my sandals; I ran.
I pull up short outside the closed door, and turn, as I did seven years ago, to the window that looks into the Prince’s room. I remember the hesitation of my ten-year-old self, skidding to a halt on the rich carpet, staring uncertainly at the green shapes on the other side of the tinted glass. Noting the small figure that was the Prince. A table, bed, toys – something small that didn’t belong. I had burst through the door as if it were not latched, my sword had pierced through the head the small, venomous snake wriggling on the Prince’s floor. Then, staring down at the creature, my vision wobbled; I nearly fell onto the Prince’s bed. A tiny sound made me turn my head, reminded me of the one I came to save. He had seemed to me a cherub, that first time I saw my unit’s charge. The soft black ringlets, the perfect fingers and toes, the little drooling mouth. He was three, the same age my brother was when the Plague took him. As I stared at the little Prince, the baby’s attention turned to the dead snake. I felt a feeling I could not name rise in me as the Prince crawled to the animal, dragging his useless leg behind him. His tiny hands wrapped around the snake’s lifeless body, his rosy cheek rubbed against its head, and tears spilled from his eyes. While I watched, the little Prince mourned for the snake, the snake who would have killed him, cried for the weapon of the men who tried to murder him.
Some small sound had escaped my throat, and the Prince struggled back to me, set one hand on my knee to pull himself up, leaned against me. One of my hands, small, lean, brown, reached out and touched his.
“Who are you?” I whispered. And the Prince answered me, understood and answered me,
“Havvit Pince.”
“Havvit Pince,” I repeated. “Havvit Pince.” And understood in turn. Prince. Half-wit Prince. Ever since the fatal day of the fall, but a month before, the Prince had been listening, and had been understanding. Half-wit Prince. An insult. The label of stupidity for a fall, even though the nurse should have been watching, even though he was only three. Half-wit Prince.
It had been instinctive; my arms went around him, my cheek on his head, my voice in his ear, renewing the promise previously made for my mother and sister’s sakes.
“I will protect you. I will not let anyone hurt you. My sword is yours. My heart is yours. My life is yours.” Gone were any thoughts of the pittance of a soldier’s salary, going home to keep my mother and sister. Gone was any thought of propriety. Gone was everything but my soul and his, and the words that came unbidden to my lips. “Your Majesty. . . I love you.” His fingers had curled against my neck, his voice had struggled to answer. “Luv. . . oo.”
My eyes strain to peer through the tinted glass; my throat tightens at the vague shapes, though it is only what I expected. Half-wit. Prince. The latch is stronger now than it was seven years ago, but that does not matter. The door is unlatched. It slams into the wall, so hard that the man’s arm falters; his head whips around, in time to see the blur that is my sword enter his neck, killing him. Seven years ago, I had never killed a man in my life. I discovered my talent with a sword through butchering animals, slaying vermin and crows. Not killing men. Now I have killed several times, to protect my Prince. But never before have I felt this way. Hatred boils in my gut, steams from my every breath. This man would have killed my Prince. This man is the snake, a venomous reptile, the symbol of all evil. This man is the plague, that killed my father, that killed my brother. This man would have killed my Prince. Again and again, my sword plunges into the corpse. The man is dead, but my fury knows no reason. One last time I wrench my sword free, and look up at last. He’s sitting there, awake, my Prince. His hair still dark, but without the baby curl; the same wide eyes and innocent face; the crippled leg. A soft moaning wisps from his mouth, his eyes resting on the man’s body. Jerkily, he tries to move forward. I want to shout to him, to tell him no, that man was evil, he would have killed you! But I do not, because the part of me that loves instead of hates knows that his innocence is good, that it is better he know no evil and mourn death. Instead, I reach out and help him. I watch him as he kneels, mourning the dead man, his ten-year-old hands resting gently on the arm with which the man would have killed my Prince, and I pity him, for his crippled body and simple mind, but at the same time I look up to him, for I know that his innocence is a gift of God. He turns to me, and his face lights up with a smile as he truly sees me for the first time.
“Jon. . .am! Youu aare here!” The words are simple, but it costs him great effort to say them. I smile down at him.
“Who are you?” I say in greeting. He laughs.
“Havvit.” He reaches up to me, and I pick him up under the legs and behind his back. His arms go around me and squeeze tight for a moment, then his consciousness wavers. I settle him gently on his bed. I wish this hadn’t happened, because we are going to the theatre tonight – the whole royal family – as a show of benevolence to some budding actors, and as a diplomatic overture to the royalty of another kingdom, who are in turn showing their goodwill towards Their Majesties by coming to this evening of entertainment in this country. I do not wish this for my Prince’s sake, for he will not remember this incident, but for mine. I am shaken. My thoughts are in turmoil. I know that I shall sit rigidly, meeting curious glances with hostile glares, which will be no help to me or the Prince. It will only draw attention to us, something we certainly do not need, especially with my Prince waving and smiling at everyone. Even his sister. It is not, of course, the Princess’s fault she was born shortly after the Prince’s fall, but I cannot help blaming her for the treatment the Prince receives. I do not pretend to know the ways of kings, and perhaps it is true that the Princess would make a better ruler, but it irks me that no one, not even his parents, seems to see how wise and pure the little half-wit Prince is. To me, a simple mind is no indication of how much one deserves a kingdom.
In an hour or two, the Prince’s carers will awaken. They will either be or pretend to be horrified at the bloody corpse on His Majesty’s floor. A search will be made for any accomplices, for the route into the palace. But the secret supporters of the Princess will see to it that nothing is found. Only one thing that furthers the Prince’s safety will be done; I will move into the room next to the Prince’s, completed or not.
I sit upright on the plush cushion of my chair, my body so tense that I jump at every unexpected sound. The Prince beside me babbles without knowing. For the sixth time since the play began, I crane my neck to see three rows down, where four sham guards flank the dwarf who stands in for the Prince. The royal family sits beside them, the real ones, surrounded by their own guards. My look deepens into a frown as I see the young Princess glance in disdain at the poor dwarf. Although she is only seven, her prim and haughty demeanour revolts me. Knowing that it was men working on her behalf, even though she does not control them, who have tried to kill my Prince sickens me still further.
As if he can sense my dark feelings, the Prince moans loudly. Someone from further down the row – not one of the latent guards, but a citizen – leans forward and stares. I put my arm around the Prince and hold him close. “Don’t worry, my Prince,” I tell him softly. “You are safe with me. Sssh.” He quiets and snuggles against me, drawing up his good knee.
For a while I try to relax and enjoy the play, but I cannot help jerking anxiously at every suspicious move of the people around me. I do not like having so many strangers this close to my Prince, and the disguised guards are little comfort. There are perhaps four or five of the ten hidden guards that I would trust with my life, but I trust no one but myself with the Prince’s life.
Soon the Prince’s head begins to droop and he falls asleep on my arm. A few minutes later, I am startled from my thoughts by a movement behind me. Easing my arm from under the Prince’s head, I turn to see one of the hidden guards quietly making his way down the row towards the exit. As no one is supposed to know that the Prince has been replaced by the dwarf, I can hardly shout for him to halt or question him. He disappears through the exit, and I settle uneasily back into my seat.
I sit and watch my Prince all through the second act while he sleeps peacefully, free from all the fears that plague me. As the actors troop off the stage at the end of the scene, the Prince’s eyes flutter open.
“Jon. . .am.” he murmurs sleepily. He sits up and looks around. “What?” he asks. Confused, I listen, and then I hear it, too. Loud shouts and the clang of steel meeting steel. An assassin. No, more like assassins. My Prince clutches at my arm, but I stand up, almost yanking the sword from my belt before I realize the sword would be a beacon drawing the enemies to my Prince. Many others have stood as well, citizens as well as guards. We stand tensely, waiting for the moment when either the actors come pelting on for the next scene, our guards come panting through to tell us everything is under control, or the murderers come sliding through to run at the Prince. The curtain covering the door is swept back, and as soon as the crowd sets eyes on the sweaty man in civilian clothes, dripping blood from his right arm, there is chaos. People shove past me, pushing me stumbling away from my Prince. Panicking, I try to force my way back to him, but the crowd is too strong. Men all around me are drawing swords and stabbing, slicing, killing their respective enemies. A man leaps at me, snarling, with his knife ready, and I instinctively draw my sword to block. As I fight, I listen frantically for any sound of the Prince, but only the roar of battle fills my ears. Gradually I take in the news as it is shouted above the din. The royal family is safe, whisked away by their guards as soon as the fighting began. The dwarf, posing as the Prince, is dead. I wonder grimly if they have realized their mistake yet. Then there is a great roar of triumph, followed by a moment of quiet where I can hear again. A vague horror grips me so that I nearly drop my sword. Suddenly my Prince gives a clear cry and is silent. Dread crushes my heart; I fling away caution and battle like a wounded animal, forcing my way to his side. Men from both sides surround me, but I have eyes only for the Prince. A man stands over him; a sword protrudes from his breast. I do not know what I do; I hear a sound unlike anything I have heard before, and realize it comes from me. I raise my sword with both hands; someone stabs me from behind. With all my strength, I smash the sword down on the murderer, killing him instantly. I collapse onto the floor, redness swirling behind my eyes. People step on my legs as the fighting continues, and I lose all sense of time. After a while, I become aware that the noise has faded considerably. With great effort, I raise my head. The fighting, what is left of it, is outside. The battle is over, and with it, the battle of my life and the Prince’s. The Prince’s.
“My Prince!” the words crackle from my dry throat like leaves in a bonfire. “My Prince!” Pain rakes me, but I heave myself onto an elbow. He lies there so still and quietly, his face peaceful. I remember him as a toddler, crying for the poisonous snake that would have killed him. I remember him as he was a short while ago, mourning for the man who tried to kill him. I see him now, and slowly, my hatred against the murderers dies to nothingness, because I know that he would harbour no malice, feel no hatred or anything but sympathy and pity for the men who did kill him. I lived for my Prince. Soon I will have died for him. And now I will serve the Prince’s true self, and love for him. For his sake, I will love the people who killed my Prince, just as he did.
One last time, I whisper, “Who are you?” And deep within me, my Prince answers. “Havvit. Havvit Prince.”