Edward Windsor
TNPer
Lost and Found: A Christmas Story
By: Morwenna, Duchess of Perth
As the Monarch rose from his troubled sleep, he was surrounded not by his retinue with his breakfast in hand, but in the darkness of his chambers; alone and with the name of his long-lost son upon his lips. As he felt himself mouthing a faintly familiar name, he relived the loss of his dear boy but a matter of years ago.
“Your Majesty...” called a young female voice distantly, “...your Majesty! Arise, for the morning has arrived in all its glory!” she continued as she threw open the curtains, flinching at the sudden burst of blinding light diffusing throughout the chamber.“Leave me be, Miss Deacon” he replied dismissively, deep in thought, mouthing under his breath, almost too softly for Miss Deacon to hear, the name, Aleksander, over and over again. He ignored Miss Deacon, even as she sat by his bedside and tried to rouse him from his thoughts. “I said, leave me be!” he commanded, and she left the room.
Reaching into his nightshirt, he pulled from it an ornate locket. Handling it as if it were fragile as frost, with the utmost respect and reverence, he slowly opened it to reveal the photograph of a handsome young man not yet out of his boyhood, with sparkling blue eyes, and turned to read the message inscribed on the inverse:
“Daddy. You are the light where there is darkness, the rock where there is hardship, and the best friend I have, and ever will have. Love from your son, Aleksandar.”
As he whispered the message under his breath, he felt a solitary tear falling. He wiped it away, only for many more to accompany it as he started to weep bitterly, mourning the loved, lost boy who never grew up.He remembered what happened as if it were yesterday; his beloved, youngest son having disappeared that very night in an ambush from the dreaded brigands whilst on a mission to dispatch the very scoundrels. He remembered how bitterly he wept when the sole survivor brought him the broken sword belonging to the little prince, the sword he wielded that fateful night.
But he did not remember falling as, on the thirteenth day, his scouts came before him with the dreaded news and a battered coat of mail; that his young son had most likely been dispatched by the very rogues he had set out to put to his sword.
And so, for four long years, he sent out the greatest of scouts known to his Kingdom to scour his lands and beyond from the anniversary of his son’s disappearance, and for thirteen more days. And for three of those years, he was met with their failures.
The first year, he sent a dragon-hearted nobleman, famed for his old connections to a number of prominent brigands, and his silver tongue. He returned bearing the young prince’s misericorde, stained still with traces of dried blood, but with no news of the boy.
And the Monarch was diminished thusly, closing the year with mourning for its remaining months.
The second year, he sent an elderly gentleman, famed for his hawk-eyes and still-young ears. He returned bearing the prince’s targe, dented and tarnished after the nigh on two years it had been in the dirt, only to be passed onto the peasantry and the townspeople, with their rowdy marketplaces, from which he had managed to bargain the worthless piece of scrap off.
And the Monarch was diminished thusly, closing the year with mourning for its remaining months.
The third year, he sent his very own spymaster, and the greatest of the greats in his Kingdom. He returned, albeit robbed by a band of brigands.
And the Monarch was diminished thusly, closing the year with mourning for its remaining months and greatly, for there was no-one left who could find the little prince. And he grieved terribly as the fourth year steadily approached.
But on the night before the fourth year’s passage, an elfin young princess-by-marriage, whom he doted upon as if she were his own, approached him with the ludicrous (by that time) offer of finding the brother-in-law she never met.
Taken from Bedlam as a former brigand herself, she specialised in bringing back captives for her band to hold for ransom, specifically the most slippery of them all. Despite his protests, she set off at once and was gone into the night, leaving the Monarch hoping that he would not lose another of his beloved children...
Meanwhile, at the very borders of the Kingdom’s reach...
“Stop the coach; this is as far as we can go without arousing suspicion!” shouted the princess, and her order was heeded as the coachman held his horse, passing through the gates of a modest country estate belonging to the local Lord. Pulling on her gloves and rolling down her sleeves to cover her brands and tattoos earned from her days among the brigands, she lifted her petticoats above her ankles with one hand, and took the coachman’s outstretched hand with the other as she stepped from the carriage, followed closely behind by her lady-in-waiting carrying her saddlebags.“Your Highness,” began the excited Lord, eagerly anticipating an outstretched hand for him to kiss, “fancy seeing you here at my humble abode this fine day! Would you like a little bit to drink? I’ve just gotten a new shipment of liqueur, and it’s well-known throughout the Kingdom that a certain Morwenna has a sweet tooth.”
“I’m fine, but I do thank you for your generous offer” she replied politely, and outstretched her hand, smiling as the Lord kissed her hand with glee. Turning to her lady-in-waiting and the coachman, she distanced them from the earshot of their host and whispered among them: “Do you remember the plan we discussed?”
“As well as I ever will, ma’am!” replied her lady-in-waiting.
“When do we start?” asked the coachman.
“After the first banquet.” affirmed Morwenna. “There is but a mere ennead’s worth of days fore the advent of Christmas morn.”
With much joy and merriment that night, the preparations the Lord had made for his royal guest’s banquet were all put into place. Many sweetmeats were devoured, much alcohol flowed freely, and the fine foods were all but gone or thrown to the Lord’s faithful hounds.
“Oh heavens...” moaned the princess, steadying herself on her chair as she started to lose her balance, “I feel poorly...” As the Lord’s servants rushed towards his honoured guest to join her lady-in-waiting and escort them to the guest’s quarters, he turned his back and stormed off to the kitchens, determined to know what it was that his cooks put into the food...“Do you need a physician, Your Highness?” asked the Lord after he found nothing amiss from his cooks.
“Shall I fetch you some tar water?” asked the Steward, hoping to be of aid.
“Would you at least have a nurse?” asked the Housekeeper, curious.
“No, no, and no thank you.” replied Morwenna, staggering to the guest’s quarters with her lady-in-waiting by her side. “The turbulence of long journeys often has such an effect upon me; there is no need to worry.” And with a wave of her hand, she dismissed the Lord’s household staff, leaving her alone with her lady-in-waiting and coachman.
And as soon as the host’s retinue was out of earshot, she turned to the two, with a twinkle in her eye, as she stood up as if nothing had happened: “Margaret, help me out of this gown; I’m sure women of nobility have had to learn not to breathe. And Cameron, fetch my saddle-bags; they’re on the other side of the room, and I’ve packed my things. I’m going to find the little prince, Aleksander, tonight...”
“Surely you’re not going to go back to those... brigands... are you?” asked Cameron, perplexed, as his brow creased with worry.
“They’re brigands! Outlaws! They’ll tear you to pieces!” cried Margaret, struggling to contain her hysterics.
Morwenna said not a word, but turned to her retinue and rolled up her sleeves. Slowly, carefully, and to their absolute horror, she removed her left glove to reveal a V branded on her forearm, flanked by elaborate, barbed tattoos in vermilion, crimson and threaded lampblack. Cameron reached for his rapier, but stopped, remembering oaths sworn long ago to the Kingdom. Margaret was petrified at the tattoos and brand on her mistress’s arm, and said not a word as she helped her out of her gown.
Leather-clad, russet-hooded and sheepskin-cloaked, with her hands gloved in hemp, her skirts hoisted just above her knees, her dirk sheathed at her hip and her rucksack slung over her left shoulder, she made her exit that night, scaling down the manse’s walls holding a scarlet cord. With a final farewell to her nervous coachman and lady-in-waiting, she disappeared into the night and headed for the town or, rather, its most disreputable tavern...
“Ah, The Peasant Prince Inn; a hotbed for rogues, thieves and others of ill repute...” she muttered under her breath as she approached the distant, ramshackle structure, deep in disrepair, as she felt a wave of nostalgia pass over her. “My old haunt; surprisingly largely avoided by the constables of the town...” Deep in contemplation at the colourful days of her past; the past which led to her confinement in Bedlam, and her eventual rescue by the Monarch during one of his visits to that most infamous madhouse, she slowed in her pace. Treading carefully, she wondered as the tavern’s sign slowly became visible: “Am I doing the right thing?”Within the tavern, however, there could not have been more revelry than this time with the fast-approaching Yuletide; old rivals drank their grog together instead of duelling, the sons of the Lord (woe betide their father find them in such an establishment!) were seen dancing to the attractive young lute-player, and even a town constable was seen dining with a band of brigands. All in all, the entire tavern was in celebration, save for one...
For in the corner of the tavern, far-removed from all the spirits, sat a lone, despondent young man, scarcely in semblance of his one-score summers old, and in the dark hemp rags typical of brigands. Absent-mindedly, he carved long-meaningless sigils into the wooden wall which he leant against, accompanied by the fall of a solitary tear.
“Your Highness!” called a young lad, clad likewise in the distinctive dark hemp rags, “Come celebrate with us this Yuletide; the barmaids have your---”
Without a word, the young man rose from his despondence, knife in hand, with his bright blue eyes glinting in the dim light of the tavern and pushed the lad against his wall, pinning him in place with his knife at the boy’s throat: “One: never, ever call me ‘Your Highness’ again; I am a common man like yourself, I bleed just like you do; my name is Nordic Arbor, but you are free to call me Nordic, Arbor, or Not Applicable; anything but ‘Your Highness’. Two: it is none of your business what I do this and every other Yuletide; it is just another lonely and miserable day in the year. Three: leave me to my mourning’s wende; I am an unwanted boy, abandoned thirteen days before the Yuletide which so many celebrate, four years ago; I need not, waste not, want not any earthly comforts at this time of the year.” Overcome by emotion, he released the lad from his grip and proceeded to break down in tears.
But none saw Morwenna, clad as a common brigand, pass through the creaky swinging doors of the tavern... She heard not the clamour of revelry of many, but the weeping and tears of one who was broken inside. And she saw not the troubadours, revellers and dancers, but the solitary, tragic figure knelt in the corner of the tavern. Weaving through the crowds as she held herself against the wall, even passing a shaken young lad in his part-flight, she approached in silence, so as to not startle the weeping man...
Resting her hand on his arm, she resisted his attempt to pin her to the wall as she grabbed him by his hood, pulling it above his face to reveal a bright blue glint. Confused and frustrated, Nordic tore at the neckerchief covering her face, only to be struck down, awed in realisation of such alien beauty. Unperturbed, she pulled her left glove from her hand, revealing her branding and tattoos. But she then removed the other glove to reveal a ring, sapphire-set and Latin-inscribed along its band.
Dropping his knife and falling once more to his knees, he demanded of the strange woman, who bore both the scars of a brigand such as he and the favour of the Kingdom: “What do you want?”
She said not a word in response to Nordic, but instead reached into her rucksack, and drew three items from it: a misericorde stained with traces of dried blood, a dented targe, and a gilded reliquary containing a liquid. She lay each item on a bolt of starched wool and, picking up the misericorde first, told the story of each item: “This misericorde was the weapon you delivered your first mercy blow to your first brigand. It was found by a noble huntsman, formerly a brigand himself.”
Nordic said not a word as she replaced the weapon, only to pick up the targe next: “This targe once bore your royal coat-of-arms, but time and the many hands that had handled it since it was lost have left it more or less worthless. It was found by a hawk-eyed, young-eared gentleman, loyal to the king till the end.”
Nordic flinched for but a moment, but still said not a word as she replaced the buckler and, as if it were as fragile as frost, lifted the reliquary for Nordic to behold, heavy as it was: “This receptacle contains the tears that your Daddy shed for both of us the night before I set off to find you, a task which even his own spymaster failed at. It is but one of so many; every year since he lost you, and since you lost him, he had sent the greatest of huntsmen and spies to find his dear, dear lost son. He never gave up hope, he never stopped looking, and he will continue to search for you till the end of his days. And---”
“Stop.” he commanded, shielding his face to hide the tears that flowed anew. “I am a brigand; they will kill me, and not even the claims of being Daddy’s long-lost son will spare me from the gallows. I cannot go back, not even to rekindle the joy of Yuletide.”
“You can. Because I did.”
“You were insane, of course you could.”
“Then take my ring.”
“No. It’s yours. Keep it.”
“Yes. Take it and wear it for now, at the very least. Now follow my lead.”
Without a sound, as the night grew old, as the day was born and as the revellers grew cold in inebriation, the two slipped out of the tavern as the first crack of approached in the distance. Wending through the willows by her host’s walled estate, Nordic held her hand as he was first lifted up onto the wall, and helped her up in turn. Keeping careful watch for sentries as they scaled the wall by the scarlet cord thrown to the two, to the horror of the coachman and the lady-in-waiting.
“Ma’am!” shouted Margaret, panicking. “Who is this scoundrel you’ve brought here?”Morwenna was about to speak, but Nordic silenced her and responded instead: “Margie... do you remember me? Margie...”
Margaret dropped the broom she held, aghast. For there was only one person, living or dead, who referred to her as Margie, and that person was...
“Aleksander?!” she cried, struggling to recognise the rugged, dishevelled vagabond who had been brought to their quarters apart from his bright blue eyes. “Is that you...”
“Yes, Nanny, it’s your little Aleksander” replied Aleksander, turning to the coachman, “and I see you, Ronny, the man who taught me not to fear horses as we rode in the coach so many years ago.” He smiled as Cameron sheathed his rapier, wiping away a single tear.
Morwenna clapped her hands to rouse her retinue and Aleksander: “Tonight, we must return home; Yuletide fast approaches, and we must tarry no more.”
Miss Deacon passed through the ornate doorway of the Monarch’s chamber, greatly saddened by her liege’s grief. But what was she to do? He had very little interest in opening his gifts, and only did so as part of maintaining his facade of having moved on from his loss, even though everyone in the palace knew full well the complete opposite was true. Every year since his loss, everyone in the palace would compete with one another to see whose gift would rouse him from his misery. People placed bets on whose gift would rouse the Monarch from his misery, even, but not one would be acted upon, year after year.
“What can we do, Nyx?” bemoaned Miss Deacon to the Grand Duchess, despondent as she checked who had left gifts for the Monarch underneath the ornate tree. “The poor fellow, he’s lost his little boy, and he might just lose his little girl, too.” she continued on.“There’s very little we can do, other than hold out hope that not one, but both return safely.” replied Nyx, and tried to console the distraught housekeeper.
“Hamnet, that aristocratic former brigand, he couldn’t find the lost boy. The Beaumont gentleman, Jimmy, he couldn’t either. If not even the Imperial Spymaster can manage it, then who can? Surely not a little girl!”
“Well, you never know, Miss Deacon; I have a feeling there’s more to her than meets the eye...”
“Well, maybe I do know; where huntsmen and spymasters with decades of training fail, how would you think that a little girl succeeds where they fail?”
“She’s not little, she’s a grown woman now, but you do have a point. Anyway, you should bring His Majesty to the gifts he’s received this year; they’ve since been all set out.”
And so Miss Deacon, once again, was left with the Herculanean task of rousing the Monarch from his state of mourning and bringing him to his gifts underneath the tree. It took well over an hour of coaxing and flattery to convince him before he finally relented and left his chambers for the tree.
“To the happily-wed royal couple... with discreet compliments!” read a card from Sacul Astoria attached to a box of condoms, which the Monarch tossed to the side, without a single chuckle having been elicited.
“Your new clothes, King-Emperor”, a note that smelled like it had been in the dry cleaner’s attached to an ostentatious carmine suit covered in beetles from Prince Victor read. But material richness was nothing to the bereaved.
And so more gifts were opened from the many residents of the Palace, only to be turned away in bereavement. Soon, there were no more gifts left underneath the tree, and the Monarch wept most bitterly, for there was only one gift he could ever want, and that was the one from his lost little boy. But he was long gone...
“Your Majesty!” called a young man as he rushed down the corridor, his footsteps clapping loudly against the marble floor. Huffing and puffing, with an envelope in hand, he panted: “There’s one more gift, and I think it’s for you...”“You keep it; there is no more joy left in the Yuletide spirits.” replied the Monarch flatly, and absent-mindedly took the envelope from the young man when it was thrust into his hands.
Silently, he turned the envelope over, and was stunned as he beheld the label, reading: “For my dear, dear Daddy. Love Aleksander.”
Struggling to hold back his tears, and dreading what was inside it, he slowly, reverently opened the envelope and pulled from it, a letter, reading: “Daddy. Meet me at the Palace gates.”
As the coach passed through the gates, the Palace guard, nervous as he heard an unfamiliar noise coming from within, stopped it and demanded that everyone inside leave while the coach was inspected; in a fit of nervousness and fear, Aleksander had come down in tears and was unfortunate enough for the guards to have heard him.
“Your Highness! Quickly -- out, for something is terribly amiss!” cried the guard, and she exited the coach, followed closely by her lady-in-waiting and the coachman from his perch at the front of the coach. Searching the coach’s interior, the guard raised his sword towards the scruffily-dressed Aleksander, his eyes blazing with fear and utter loathing. “Aha! We’ve got you now -- you’re going down!” sneered the guard.“Stop.” thundered a hollow, imperious voice behind the small crowd. “Do not harm one hair of this man or I shall personally cleave you in twixt!”
“His Majesty has spoken!” whispered the stricken guard, as he narrowly managed to avoid fainting out of fear, his voice breaking with fear. He lowered his sword and took several steps back from the coach, but not before he turned, bowing deeply to the Monarch.
Nervous, and with his head hung in reverence, Aleksander slowly found his way out of the coach, and was about to bow, but not before his Daddy whispered softly enough for only his son to hear: “Stop, my dearest son. You are royalty -- always have been, always will be -- and you need not bow.”
“Daddy...” whispered Aleksander, his voice heavy with reverence and emotion, struggling to contain his tears, wishing that he was not clad in such common rags before his Daddy. “Daddy!” he cried, holding out his arms for a cuddle; one that had not been had in four long years. “DADDY!”
“Son!” cried the Monarch, and embraced his son once more, and their tears flowed free as the wind blew. And on that Yuletide noon, the Monarch held the grandest of feasts and made peace with the brigands who had spared his son, granting them land so that they would seek no longer to pillage that of others.
For Aleksander was dead, but is now alive. He was lost, but is found.
