Puss's Boots - Chapter 7

“They are imposters, your Majesty! The ancient Lord Gloria lives, alone and heirless!” Came a booming voice from the back of the grand Hall. A tall, dark man came forward and swept into a deep bow before the King. He stood to the right of Orlando and motioned for his companions to fall into positions on either side of Dione and Caoimhe.

“Vincente?” His Majesty’s voice was, outwardly, calm, but it held a trace of anger for any who knew well enough the great King’s tones. Those present murmured in astonishment; who would dare speak out against a foreign lord and lady, especially ones now married into one of the highest echelons of the Court?

“My liege, you know me as always a humble servant, honest and true. You know me as your son’s own godfather.” Pointing now at Orlando directly, he spoke again. “This man is a liar and a wizard; he has bewitched your son and now tries his hand at you.”

“You have proof of this. A statement only, for I know, Vincente, that you of all people would not charge a man, and risk a war, without such a thing.” The fans and handkerchiefs of the Court flitted and fluttered, and their owners all whispered at once.

“Tokens from the Crown Prince were found in his brother’s home, and the ancient Chief-of-Mages senses an aura of Old Magic around him. If I may, my liege?” At the King’s nod, the man approached Orlando, only to be stopped by Puss leaping in his path with a hiss.

“No, Puss, please do not make this worse.” Orlando’s clear, innocent voice rang true and loud despite that it was but a whisper that he had spoken. “I am sure I have done nothing wrong.”

“Then, certainly, you have nothing to fear.” The King spoke kindly. “Your cat certainly thinks so.”

“Yes, Father, I do.” And before their eyes Puss grew, shifted, changed, and became a man, Orlando’s Stranger, with golden hair and storm-grey eyes and a mysterious smile. “As for my Godfather, I cannot say the same thing.”

Chaos broke out in the hall. The Prince had returned from a trip he had never left for, and the Court swooned and cried out. And Orlando too collapsed; the Crown Prince himself caught the falling man as Caoimhe ordered a chair brought. The King called for order, and Veroni again tried to cry that Orlando was a traitor. Finally, order prevailed, and the King ordered the Hall cleared save for a few key members, Caoimhe and Dione, newly emerged elder Lord Gloria, and, of course, Veroni. The King then turned to his newly returned son and asked him ever so kindly for an explanation.

“Father, what Vincente said first is true: the ancient Lord Gloria lives, heirless, for now. Orlando,” he turned to look at the now alert man who was currently trying to hide in the plushness of his chair, “your locket? Yours too, Dione. Look at them, Father. You too, Lord Gloria.” The man had quickly been brought out from the servants quarters where he had been hidden earlier. He was an old, bent man, who relied on both cane and a double eyepiece, once dark hair was now mostly white, and his once pale skin was shrivelled and wrinkled. He carefully approached the throne at the Prince’s request and reached out for the lockets to examine them with his own, failing, eyes.

“They were mine, yes. My grand-daughter – my only remaining family after the Great Illness – took them when she left to marry that commoner merchant when I disowned her. She was your mother?” He paused a moment and looked the two siblings over from head to toe; then he answered his own question, “Yes, I think so; you look too similar to be anything but my Marie’s. And you, Orlando, yes? She had always said her firstborn son would bear my name.”

“Our Mother’s name was Marie…” Orlando spoke softly enough that only those immediately around him heard his words, but before either Orlando of Dione fully could process the new information about their family, Vincente Veroni had another charge to address.

“They have bewitched his Highness, Majesty, in an effort to seduce him out of his throne.”

“No, Vincente.” The Prince spoke quickly and surely. “It is I who have been bewitching them; it is I who gave them help when you betrayed me by murdering their parents.”

“Our parents were killed by an unfortunate fire, Highness.” Dione sadly stated, unwilling – unable – to believe that her family’s death could be anything but an unfortunate accident.

“They were killed in a fire set by a greedy man who was scared by my intentions for your family.” Now he faced Dione and spoke directly to her. She raised her head defiantly, not scared by the titles of the men who attacked her brother’s honour and their parent’s memory, and moved behind her brother’s chair, ready to defend him no matter the consequences to herself. Caoimhe too moved to support her wife, trusting her unconditionally, but a soft voice stopped them.

“Plans for me, I would guess, my Prince?” Orlando rose unsteadily from his chair; he shook off his sister and sister-in-law’s hands. His own vibrated by his side, and his entire body swayed, still weak from his fainting spell. The Prince’s hands he could not avoid so easily, and, to the onlookers, it looked as if the two danced a special waltz. The Prince pushed forward, grasping lightly at Orlando, who, in an effort to appear steady, swayed away. Whether by chance or design or the Magic that the Prince so obviously possessed, however, the younger man ended up swaying right into the Prince’s waiting arms.

“Perhaps,” his voice was low and intimate, “you have enchanted me, my talking statue, ever since my horse was intelligent enough to injure herself in front of your playground. You must know that from that fateful day I planned to make you my consort.” Now, still holding Orlando close, he turned and allowed his words to be heard by the entire room.

“I made the mistake of trusting my power-hungry godfather with my intentions. I went to him and brought him to your father, but Vincente wanted to make me suffer losing you. He thought it poetic justice that I be forced to give you up, my love, as he was forced to give up his; a sad move made by a man who could not fathom love growing between yet another royal and a man he sees as unworthy of the attention of a king. And yes, Father, I have proof of this; his journal, written in his own hand, detailing his plans. Godfather is nothing if not meticulous.”

“Vincente,” the King spoke, “who is it that you were forced to give up? Surely we never forced you…” He trailed off, uncertain for the first time in years. He loved Vincente, trusted him, surely he could never hurt him, would never hurt him. Vincente must know that…

“You act as if you do not know. Very well, play your games; surely the gods know I have always played mine. It was you, Alexander. It always was you; did you never wonder why I did not, why I could not, marry? I loved you too much. I still do, but now, now I hate you as well. And by hating you, I hate myself too. Forgive me, my love, my King?”

“Vincente…” Alexander was, for a moment, not a king, but a simple man, and he desperately wanted to say that yes, he forgave Vincente, even if he was unable to give him the love he craved. The words would not come to him, and he realized that try as he might, he was paralyzed. He could not speak a word, and Vincente, taking the silence as a sign of his love’s disgust, called up his fire, not on Orlando, nor his beloved’s son, a daily reminder of the pain he felt, nor even Alexander himself, but on himself. The was Dragon-fire, contained to a small circle and it burned hot and fast, and, not even moments later, Vincente was ash.

Shocked into action upon seeing the flames engulf his oldest and dearest friend, Alexander threw himself off the throne and ran down the steps of the dais and toward the flames, only to be stopped by his son and held fast in his arms. Caoimhe quickly cleared the room of the remaining onlookers, and Dione herself barred the doors.

“But I did love him.” King Alexander kept repeating, over and over, “I just loved Regina too.”