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Andrews UK - William Stafford

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109 pages

English

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The inept evil sorcerer Diabolos plots to usurp the throne of Meritania but finds his schemes foiled at every turn by handsome window cleaner Nick. Will Diabolos be able to seize the throne? Will selfish brat Princess Alisande ever grow up? What is the secret of Nick's past? Where is your fairy godmother when you need her? And how will the kingdom cope with the destructive enemy headed its way? A romantic fairy tale adventure with a wry sense of humour, "Someday, My Prince" is a modern bedtime story for anyone who enjoys Disney movies and pantomimes.

Sujets

Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Fantasy

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	11 mai 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781781662137
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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Title Page
SOMEDAY, MY PRINCE
A Fairy Tale
A Novel by
William Stafford

Publisher Information
Someday, My Prince
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © William Stafford
The right of William Stafford to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Dedication
For Lewis, A Prince among men

Someday, My Prince
Cora Threadneedle raised her arm once more and rapped the door with her knuckles for the - well, she had lost count of how many times. She had performed this particular onerous task every morning since her arrival at the castle several years ago, and as the Princess had entered her teenage years, the job of getting her up and ready to face the day had become increasingly difficult to the extent that it was now bordering on the impossible.
The impossible is what I do best, Cora sighed inwardly. She could feel the stiffness of the wand tucked into her sleeve and was sorely tempted to whip it out and – and what, exactly? Cast an enchantment that would give the Princess an infallible internal alarm clock? Materialise a trebuchet under the Royal bed, to catapult the lazy tyke towards the wardrobe where bewitched outfits would insinuate themselves onto her body while a bucket of water emptied itself over her head...
Cora sighed, outwardly and audibly this time. She was not going to take the risk just because the heir to the kingdom was too bloody lazy to get out of bed in the morning. No matter how tired Cora was of her thankless duties as a waiting gentlewoman, there were others dependant on her presence, matters of great import she needed to husband.... Bumwads! she muttered, uncharacteristically. She raised her wand arm and knocked again.
She even said “Coo-ee!”
***
A couple of leagues from the castle, deep in the forest, a muscular young man was swinging an axe. He was shirtless but the chill of the morning meant nothing to him. He was visibly steaming from his exertions. He paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.
The truth be told, Nick was glad of the physical labour. Not only had it transformed the weedy stream of piddle he had been at eleven to the strapping wall of pectorals and biceps he was now ten years later, but it also gave him time to reflect. The repetitive, mechanical nature of chopping firewood meant that Nick’s mind could wander and indeed, wonder, at the nature of things, at the change in circumstances and what circumstances might be necessary to bring about more change... So rapt in his thoughts was he, he failed to notice the heap of shawls and walking-sticks that was ambling towards him. Nick raised his axe high and the pile of laundry cleared its throat, putting him off his downward stroke.
“Grandfather! What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?”
Several shawls shrugged. A nose, a chin, and a bright pair of eyes emerged, and Nick’s grandfather Vince, pointed a finger like a twig at the chopping block.
“Haven’t you finished chopping that firewood yet?” he asked, in a voice as dry as tinder. Nick made an expansive gesture that took in the block, the axe, the mound of logs yet to be chopped and the neat piles of bundles that was almost as tall as he was. Vince seemed unimpressed. “Get a move on,” he grumbled. “That axe won’t work by itself.”
“I wish it would,” Nick sighed, choosing not to point out that his grandfather’s interruption wasn’t exactly an aid to productivity. “Then I could –“
Vince cut off his grandson’s thought before he could give it voice. “Then you could waste your time daydreaming about things that can never be.”
“But I shouldn’t have to – we shouldn’t have to live like this! Have you forgotten who we are?”
“I may be old and decrepit but I could never forget who we were.” The old and decrepit man patted Nick’s forearm. “We must live with what we have and be glad to be living at all. I’ll go in and make broth. You get back to work. You know we need that firewood to get by.”
“Yes, grandfather.”
“Chop, chop!” The old man chuckled at the joke that was as old as he was and shuffled back to their cottage. Nick rolled his eyes and raised the axe but yet again, Grandfather Vince interrupted his rhythm. He had shuffled back towards the block and was in danger of being sliced in half.
“Don’t forget to chop some for the butcher,” he waggled his gnarled finger at the boy.
“No, grandfather.”
“Then there’s the baker...”
“Yes, grandfather.”
“The tambourine maker...”
“Oh, grandfather, all these people! We should be making cutbacks. Do we really need so many tambourines?”
The old man clucked. “Small local businesses should support each other. Now, who else is there? The...um...the..oh, I’ve forgotten.” Muttering to himself, Vince shuffled away again.
“Grandfather!” Nick called after him, “I’ve told you time and again to make a chopping list!”
“Bah,” the old man bleated, but deep within his many layers of shawl, he smiled. The boy still has his sense of humour – even if the jokes are as poor as we are!
Vince waddled back to the cottage, the cottage he considered them lucky to have, and Nick, shaking his head, swung his axe again.
***
The village market place, nestling in the shadow of the castle walls, was not the thriving centre of commerce it had once been. There were very few stalls open for business and most of those were barren of goods. The butcher’s hook swung empty in the breeze. A solitary bone lay on a tray lined with dead grass. The butcher himself cleaned and sharpened his cleaver, his eyes constantly on the lookout for custom or indeed, some stray beast to dismember. The baker had only a few dry and curling crusts to offer. He tossed pinches of breadcrumbs for any birds that might happen to be passing, but even they were keeping away. Time was he could trap four-and-twenty of the feathered fiends and make them into a pie fit for the King himself, but those days were perhaps gone for good.
In contrast, the stall belonging to the tambourine maker was groaning under the weight of his wares. People were giving his stall the widest berth, swerving their steps and avoiding eye contact as if he was handing out religious pamphlets. The tambourine maker sighed, drumming his fingers on one of his instruments – until the butcher and baker threw clods of muck at him to make him stop.
There was one stall, however, that was attracting a lot of, if not all of the business in the marketplace that morning. Beneath a gaudy banner that proclaimed it to be “Crazy Gordo’s House of Pumpkins”, a small, almost spherical fellow not unlike a pumpkin himself, was doing a roaring trade. People seemed happy to overlook his dirty face and slimy hair, blinded perhaps by the bright orange and green clothes he was sporting. His pumpkin costume was pristine, practically screaming jollity, and was obviously doing the trick.
“There you go, folks!” he grinned, revealing his black and uneven teeth as he handed over a pumpkin to a delighted couple before relieving them of a couple of coins. “Happy eatin’!”
He waved them away and puffed out his dirty cheeks, glad for the lull in transactions. But Gordo was not permitted much of the rest he craved. A tall, spindly figure in black robes trimmed with red, emerged from the curtain at the back of the stall. A scented, black handkerchief was held to his face causing Gordo to frown. Not the brightest pumpkin in the patch, it took Gordo some time to recognise his employer and master, the dark sorcerer, Diabolos.
“So, Gordo,” the self-proclaimed master of dark magic’s deep voice matched the sneer that seemed permanently etched on his sharp features, “how is the pumpkin trade on this vile and sunny morning?”
“Hello, boss!” Gordo beamed, affording Diabolos a gust of foul breath the scented hanky couldn’t quite fend off. “Where did you spring from?”
“From over by the - Oh, where does it matter where I sprang from? My activities are not your concern.”
Gordo frowned as he processed his patron’s words. “But I thought you asked me to mind your business.”
“Fool! I meant this business. Not my business.”
“Isn’t this your business?”
“Yes, this is my business? So how’s it going?”
“None of my business.”
Diabolos sighed. He wondered, not for the first time, why he seemed doomed to employ the dredges of humanity to assist with his nefarious purposes. It stood to reason, he supposed. Any evildoer of merit would have their own Machiavellian ends to pursue, their own tortuous schemes to engineer. They rose to the top like cream, leaving for henchmen, sidekicks and subordinates, only the clots.
“You know, Gordo,” he swatted at the bumpkin in the pumpkin suit with his hanky, “you are indubitably the most irritating of all the twerps it has been my misfortune to employ.” Gordo flinched but was giggling so Diabolos seized him by the throat. “Tell me, you malodorous, maggot-minded moron, How Is My Pumpkin Stand Doing?”
“Oh, that!” Gordo made a dismissive gesture. “That’s fine.”
“And they’re selling well, are they?”
“What are?”
“The pumpkins!”
“Oh yes, boss. Like hot cakes.”
“Oh, really?” Diabolos took Gordo’s fat face in his hand