Author’s Note: I wrote the first draft of this on under 20 minutes. I still don’t know what it’s trying to say, other than people need to chill.
Across the sea, in a wealthy and peaceful kingdom, lived a king and queen who longed for a child. For years they tried to conceive, guided by the wisdom of royal physicians, astrologers, and even a few midwives from the surrounding hamlets and woods. Nothing seemed to work. Throughout the kingdom concerned whispers in the public houses spoke of misfortune. Rumors of a curse echoed in candel-lit ducal manors.
Then one morning, the king awoke sick, sore in his newly swollen belly. The physician came at once, quickly pronouncing him pregnant.
Neither queen nor king seemed surprised, but the courtiers were another matter.
“How can this be?” The duchesses chittered in alcoves of tapestry and stone. They fanned themselves and hid their faces in the presence of the queen, who smiled serenely. “What must she think?” they clucked, lines of disapproval etching their faces. “She might be cursed, as well, poor thing.”
A plot hatched in one of the meaner manors. “He’s cursed,” a grim and grimy duke insisted. Although the king and queen saw their court well-tended, some courtiers grew greedy. “He must be removed,” a cabal insisted, enchanted by dreams of wealth and power.
In the muddy farms and smoky public houses, the canopied markets and stone-spired churches, the people carried on with their lives. In the castle, the king and queen did much the same, preparing for their customary tour of the kingdom.
A trio of dukes approached the king. “You are cursed,” they insisted, and recommended he abdicate. “No,” said the king. “I have done no wrong.” He sent the three away.
A trio of duchesses, the wives of the dukes, suggested to the queen that the king had been cursed, and that she should abandon him. “No,” she insisted, “he has done no wrong.” And she sent the trio away as well.
An assassin slipped into the castle one starless night; had the king not been awake with discomfort, he might have met the same fate as his would-be killer.
The tour proceeded as planned. The couple waved to many crowds, met with townsfolk and farmer alike, and banqueted with welcoming courtiers. An eagle-eyed guard kept the royal family safe, and even in the dukedoms of those who sought their ouster, the queen and king remained popular.
Time rolled on, and the king swelled with child; the queen swelled with pride. In the golden fields and public squares, the thatch-roofed houses and wood-shingled mills, the people swelled with pride as well, for no one had heard of a pregnant king, and this made their kingdom even more special.
When a second assassin came to the castle, the guards ensured that he met the same fate as his predecessor, though not before revealing that the three dukes had paid for his services.
When questioned by the queen, two of the dukes confessed. They begged for mercy; the queen asked if they preferred their wives imprisoned. “No! No!” they cried, so the guards led them down to serve their sentences. The third refused to confess, however, even when his wife was taken in his stead. Saddened by the duke’s stubbornness, the queen made three decrees. First, the duke’s lands and wealth would be forfeit, divided between the wives of his co-conspirators. Second, his wife the duchess would remain in the castle, a guest of the queen. Third, the duke would be banished from the kingdom.
“But why?” he asked. “Why give my lands to them? Why keep my wife in your castle?”
The queen eyed him curiously. “Why punish them, when the intransigence was yours?”
He puzzled and blustered as guards led him away.
That very same night, the cries of a newborn filled the keep. Celebrations across the kingdom followed, and no one questioned the loyalty, compassion, and goodness of the queen—or king—again.
Nicanor Abbott 