Ardennia: The Unlikely Story of Cinderella's Prince
Chapter 1

The Siege

For as long as he could remember, Henry had been prepared by those around him for war and diplomacy.

“Our kingdom is threatened by potential enemies on all sides,” his father had told him time and again.

“The Saxons are to our north, the Burgundians are to our south, the French are to our west and the Lorrainians are to our east,” had lectured his hunchbacked uncle, Lord Phillip.

“You must learn the ways of the sword but also the ways of cunning and compromise,” his tutor, Friar Bede – whose crown was shaved bald and surrounded by curly brown hair that crawled with lice – had said.

So it was not a carefree childhood for Prince Henry. In addition to swordplay Henry had to master the mace, the crossbow, the longbow, the axe, the use of the shield, the lance and the dagger, which was employed at close quarters when the battle grew the fiercest. He received many bruises and a few lacerations during his training sessions with Guy of Lucent, a grizzled old man with several ugly scars on his face and of mixed descent – his mother having been a captive Moorish woman who beguiled his father. But at least Guy was gay and garrulous when not beating the pulp out of Henry.

He was also a good story teller and on one occasion, after a particularly instructive session, Guy had asked Henry if he wanted to hear the tale about the troll and the elf.

“Oh, yes,” Henry had said.

“Once upon a time there was a troll and an elf. They were neighbors and on good terms. The troll would carve useful things for the elf and the elf would give the troll items from his garden.”

“What kind of things did the troll carve?” Henry had asked.

“Spoons, platters, pegs, mallets, rolling pins; you name it. One day the elf came over to the troll´s hole – for as you know trolls live either underground or in caves when they are handy – and gave the troll a big green squash. ‘Don’t eat it until it turns red or you will die an agonizing death’ warned the elf. The troll shrugged his shoulders and said ‘okay.’ After some days passed and the elf had not seen his neighbor around, the elf went to check on him. He discovered the troll sprawled dead upon the ground with the half-eaten, still-green squash next to him. He shook his head, pushed the troll down the hole, covered it up and erected a memorial that read ‘Here rests my friend and neighbor, the troll, a very foolish fellow’.”

“Why do you think the troll ate the squash?” Henry had asked.

“Because like all trolls he was color blind,” Guy had answered.

“Poor troll,” Henry had said.

“Forsooth; now what is the point of this story?”

“Don’t eat green squashes that are given to you by elves?”

“No. The point is you should never assume things like the elf assumed the troll could see colors.”

On another occasion, as a reward for Henry managing to land a blow on his wrist, Guy had told the Prince a little bit about his grandfather: “He was a knight without peer who knew how to dice a man into pieces with his broadsword or skewer him with a lance as if he was a target dummy. He loved to hunt as well, and many boar and stag became the victim of his keen aim with the long bow. But falconry was his greatest passion. He enjoyed watching his birds intercept their prey in mid-flight and eating with relish the spoils of the sport – especially the partridges.”

“But how did he catch the falcon in the first place?” Henry had asked.

“He stole the chicks from the nest, you dunderhead.”

“I’m not a dunderhead. I’m the Crown Prince.”

“To me you’ll always be a dunderhead. Now do you want to hear more about Henry the First?”

“Yes.”

“He was just plain old Sir Henry when I entered his service; a vassal of the Duke of Burgundy and a heavy drinker.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, little one. He was also ruthless and power hungry. When the Duke sent him to these parts to seize the territory from the godless Anglos Sir Henry did as he was ordered; not without paying a price, however. The Anglos were good fighters, skilled in the ambush and clever in always deploying themselves on high ground; they slayed a goodly number of our men at arms and more of our knights than I’d like to say. But in the end we made a slaughter of their warriors, and those who survived the pillaging were reduced to serfdom. The Duke was very pleased until he found out that your grandfather had claimed the land as his own fiefdom.”

“But my grandfather had that right because he was a descendent of Charlemagne.”

“That’s a fairy tale. Sir Henry, Henry the First, was no more a descendent of Charlemagne than I am.”

“I don’t believe you. Friar Bede showed me the bible with our genealogy clearly linked to Charlemagne.”

“A forgery, dunderhead; I was there when they concocted the whole thing.”

“So I’m not a descendent of Charlemagne.”

“No, but you are the descendent of a man who defied the Duke of Burgundy and successfully defended his new realm from all comers.”

Guy had gone on to say that eventually Henry the First had made peace with the Duke of Burgundy by marrying his youngest daughter. This had brought a cessation of hostilities on the southern border until his grandfather’s wife had died in childbirth; an all too common and melancholy occurrence in the age of chivalry. Fortunately, Henry the First had forged an alliance with France soon after.

“By marrying my grandmother,” Henry had said.

“Yes, a niece of the French King who then gave birth to your father, your deformed uncle and two other infants who died of a plague in childhood.”

A year or so after this exchange Guy had been teaching Henry the finer points of horsemanship when an accident happened. Henry’s horse had thrown him and Henry’s shoulder had been dislocated. Guy had done his best to put the ball of the upper arm bone back in the socket, but in the end Friar Bede had been summoned to relocate the joint. It had been the most painful experience in Henry’s life up to that point. His father, uncle and Guy had looked upon this incident as a rite of passage; his mother had fretted over him until he fully recovered. Henry? Henry had lost a little of his eagerness to ride his big warhorse.

All of this had soon been forgotten, though, when an army of Saxons and Lorrainians invaded the kingdom. Armed mainly with pole axes, longbows and spears they had penetrated into the very heart of Ardennia with exceptional speed and surrounded the royal castle.

“God save us if they breach the walls,” Henry’s mother had uttered.

“They won’t. They have no siege artillery, no sappers and no battering ram.” Henry’s father, King Charles had said.

“Ah, but they do,” Henry’s uncle had corrected, pointing to some Saxons bringing forward a huge tree trunk sharpened at the front end.

“To arms! To Arms!” had cried King Charles when he too saw this: “Every man to the ramparts, ready the boiling pots of oil, women and children take cover; that includes you Henry.”

“I want to stay and fight,” Henry had said.

The King had rubbed Henry’s head affectionately and said: “Not today.”

Queen Bernadette had hurried her unwilling son away at this juncture; taking him to a place of sanctuary in the castle keep. There they had joined a multitude of people – mostly peasants from the nearby countryside and residents of the village located at the foot of the prominence the castle was built on. Among these had been three girls and their mother who jostled Henry and the Queen.

“Pardon,” the youngest girl, Cinderella, had said.

“Don’t mention it,” the Queen had said.

“You are too kind your Majesty,” the mother, who was not a lady but went by the name of Lady Tremaine, had said.

“Not at all; we are all in this together. Did your whole family make it into the castle?”

“No. My husband stayed too long trying to gather our valuables. A Saxon caught him at the edge of the village and butchered him properly.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” the Queen had said.

“Yes, he was a good provider; a merchant by trade who kept us in milk and honey.”

“And nice to all his daughters,” Cinderella had added.

“This one’s the daughter from his first marriage. Her father spoiled her awfully. Those days are over I can tell you,” Lady Tremaine had said, referring to Cinderella.

Henry had not listened in on this conversation. He had wriggled though the sea of refuges to a window slit so he could witness the desperate struggle taking place at the main gate. What he saw and heard had made shivers run down his spine. There had been cries of anguish when the boiling oil had been poured on the Saxons who were battering the main gate with their massive ram. In concert with their cries had been the agonized scream of a man of arms next to the King who had been pierced through the eye with an arrow. Then Henry had seen the top of several ladders materialize to the right of the gate, immediately followed by Lorrainians reaching the upper rungs on the ladders. Henry’s uncle had heroically pushed over two ladders before being struck a glancing blow on the head with an axe by a burly Lorrainian coming over the battlement on a third ladder. King Charles had quickly dispatched this warrior with his trusty broadsword, and fought with such fury against the other interlopers that the attack had been foiled.

After the attack the dead had been interred in the castle’s graveyard and the wounded – including Lord Phillip – had been attended to in the banquet hall. Henry had observed this too. He had watched as Friar Bede, Sir Guy and his mother had done their gruesome work; pulling out arrows, amputating mangled hands, stuffing intestines back into abdomens and binding lesser wounds. This had made him nauseous and taken some of the romance out of the whole affair. But what had stuck out most to him for some reason had been the blood that had dripped on his mother’s elegant slippers as she wrapped Lord Phillip’s head with bandages. What a waste of a handsome pair of slippers he had thought, before throwing up in a corner of the banquet hall.

Their assault on the main gate having been repulsed, the Saxons and Lorrainians had made camp and settled down for a siege where they would let starvation and disease do their work. King Charles had responded by rationing food and asking for a volunteer to sneak through enemy lines and go get help from the French. Guy had volunteered, but had been turned down because of his old age. Phillip had volunteered too, and had also been turned down because of his broken noggin. Eventually, of the several other brave men who had volunteered for the perilous mission, Lord Phillip’s squire had been selected. He had set out in the dead of night after being blessed by Friar Bede. There was little else to do after that but wait, be vigilant, pick vermin off each other – for the crowded conditions had allowed fleas and lice to spread like wildfire – and hunt rats to supplement one’s diet.

Friar Bede, accustomed to having lice in his hair, but not to fleas or the suffocating stench of so many unwashed people living on top of each other had found occupation in caring for the wounded, giving the last rites to writhing men whose wounds had become gangrenous and continuing young Henry’s education.

“What is the name of the Roman general who conquered Gaul?” Bede had asked Henry during one of the lessons that helped pass the time and take their minds off the vicissitudes of the siege.

“Julius Caesar.”

“And what were the results of this conquest.”

“We lost our freedom but were brought into the civilized world.”

“And?”

“And… we never looked back?”

“Henry, you can do better than that.”

“Well, we became Christianized – not right away, but soon after Constantine became the Emperor.”

“Good. And after the fall of Rome what happened?”

“German tribes overran us and we suffered through a dark age.”

“Until?”

“Until Charlemagne united the Franks, established the Holy Roman Empire and . . .” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Sweet Prince, this is the most important part.”

“And rooted out paganism.”

“Correct. But he did more than that, my child; he reinvigorated the Church, gave it lands and money, set new and higher standards for its clergy and gave his protection to the Pope.”

“Do the new and higher standards for the clergy include telling the truth?” Henry had asked.

“Of course.”

“Then why did you lie about me being a descendent of Charlemagne?”

Friar Bede had looked questioningly at Henry without saying a word.

“Sir Guy told me,” Henry had continued.

“That figures. He doesn’t have an ounce of sense in his brain when it comes to matters of state.”

“You haven’t answered my question?” Henry had said.

“Do I need too; isn’t it obvious.”

“No.”

“What am I going to do with you? How can I mold such clay into a king worthy of a great throne? Do you really not see the advantages of being, or appearing to be, a descendent of Charlemagne.”

Henry had thought for a moment and said: “I guess it would make my ruling over Ardennia more legitimate.”

“Hallelujah, there may be hope for you yet.”

“Not if the castle falls.”

“God will see us through this, as sure as our savior died on the cross for our salvation.”

“I wish I had your faith,” Henry had said.

“I wish you did too.”

The siege had continued to cause great hardship after the ‘Charlemagne’ lesson, and in desperation King Charles and Queen Bernadette had met in council with Uncle Phillip at his bedside.”

“We may have to ask for terms,” the King had said.

“I agree,” Lord Phillip had said.

“I don’t,” the Queen had said.

“What other course of action is open to us?” King Charles had asked.

“Perseverance,” Queen Bernadette had replied.

“You can only persevere for so long. I’d give my left eye for a draught of beer and a leg of mutton right now,” Phillip had said.

“Stop thinking about your stomach and consider what is at stake,” the Queen had admonished.

“Our lives are what are at stake,” the King had said.

“Yes, if we do not seek terms we will either die of hunger, disease or the sword. We must surrender,” Lord Phillip had concluded.

“And then what? Do we slink off in ignominy? Do we and Henry spend the rest of our lives banished from our home, living on crumbs, regretting that we had not held steadfast when everything hung in the balance?” the Queen had asked.

King Charles and Lord Phillip had said nothing to this and the Queen had continued: “Show some spine in this our darkest hour. Show me the stuff you are made of. If it is food we need there is plenty of it in our enemy’s camp. Make a sortie and bring back their cattle. Better to die in the attempt than prostrate yourself before our bitter foes. If it is time we need, suffer your empty bellies and wait stoically for the French to come to our aid. If it is comfort we need, pray to our Father in Heaven for the strength to carry on.”

“You speak very high handedly for a woman,” Lord Phillip had said.

“And you, very cowardly for a man,” Queen Bernadette had retorted.

“My queen, there is no one braver in our midst than my brother,” King Charles had said.

“On the battlefield perhaps, but not in the council chambers; we must be brave in spirit as well as in deed,” the Queen had answered.

“What do you think, Phillip?” the King had asked.

“I think you are lucky to have a queen like Bernadette. I’ve always suspected it, but now I know for sure. She’s changed my mind. I say we raid our enemy’s camp this very night. I say we make fools of them and carry off enough stock to last us until the French come – if they do come. And if not, let us put ourselves in God’s hands and not into the hands of the Saxons and Lorrainians.”

“I concur. I, myself, will lead the foray. If I do not return you and the Queen will be in charge,” the King had said.

“I think it is better if you let Guy lead the sortie,” Queen Bernadette had said.

“Better for me but not for our chances. No, on this I must insist,” the King had said.

“It’s settled then,” Lord Phillip had said.

“It’s settled,” the Queen had said.

As the Queen and King had departed, Lady Tremaine, the intrepid mother of the three aforementioned girls, had come to administer kindness to Phillip – as she had been doing for some time.

“And how are we today my handsome chevalier,” Tremaine, with the cleavage of her ample bosom on full display, had greeted him.

“We are feeling ourselves improved enough to entertain thoughts of hanky panky,” the hunchbacked Lord Phillip had responded.

“You naughty man,” Tremaine flirtingly had said.

“I am what I am.”

“And I adore you for that. But I brought you something you might be as interested in as hanky panky.”

“Whatever could that be?”

“Cheese,” Tremaine had said, offering him a small piece of moldy cheese that had been distributed to her as part of her family’s food allotment for the day – specifically Cinderella’s portion of the allotment.

“Ah, a feast fit for a king,” Phillip, accepting the victual had said.

“Or a lord.”

“Or the meanest peasant, under the circumstances we find ourselves in. You are too kind. I hope I’m not depriving you of your own sustenance.”

“Phillip, may I call you Phillip?”

“You may call me whatever you wish as long as you promise me a romp in your bed someday.”

“Phillip, I would deprive myself of much more than a piece of cheese to see you happy and satisfied. I just wish I had more to offer you at the moment.”

“Lady Tremaine, you are an angel.”

“No, I am a woman in love.”

“And I am a man not so easily loved. So we make a fine pair as long as we keep things under wraps.”

“I understand completely, the widow of a merchant – even if she is a lady – is not a desirable spouse for the brother of a king; especially with three daughters in tow.”

“Exactly, but I could think of no one better to be my mistress when things get back to normal.”

“And will things ever get back to normal?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, eat your cheese slowly, then go to sleep and dream of a future where we can make merry in my boudoir,” Tremaine had said as she discreetly squeezed his hand and left the lord to his thoughts and cheese.

Lord Phillip had eaten the cheese, but he had not fallen asleep. Meanwhile King Charles had girded himself for combat. He had donned his armor, gathered twenty five of his best knights, mounted his warhorse and led his men out the main gate as quietly as he could at the midnight hour. To his immense relief he had caught his foes napping, or so he had thought. Unbeknownst to the King, his enemies had concentrated their forces near the south wall where a group of traitorous refugees had been plotting to overcome the guards and open the only other castle gate. They had been thwarted by Lady Tremaine’s stepdaughter, Cinderella, however. Too hungry to sleep she had been outside scavenging for food when she saw what was about to happen and had sounded the alarm. One of the traitors had been captured and the plot had been foiled. As these events had transpired the King and his knights had put to route a surprised and confused element of the Saxon enemy, set their camp aflame and made off with a sizable herd of bovines. These twin setbacks for the invaders had brought the siege to an end and precipitated their hasty retreat back to their respective territories. Cinderella’s contribution to the salvation of the kingdom had gone unnoticed.

The first order of business after the withdrawal of the enemy had been to torture the captured refugee. This was the bailiwick of Lord Phillip, and he had willed himself out of his sickbed to perform his duties in the dungeon. After a brief interrogation of the prisoner which had produced no results the hunchback had ordered the traitor to be stretched on the rack until all his arm and leg bones came out of their sockets – an agony that had far surpassed what Henry had endured. This had elicited the recital of all the other traitors’ names. It had not saved the doomed man from the iron maiden, however. It had been years since the brother of the King had made use of ‘the maiden’ and the hinges of the door had creaked as it was opened to reveal the spikes in the door and the rear casement.

“No! No! No!” the traitor had shouted. “I’ve told you everything.”

“That is not enough,” Lord Phillip had said.

“Not enough?”

“Not enough. You must be made an example of. Your death must be so painful and horrifying that no person will ever betray Ardennia again.”

“But I repent. I repent!”

“Too late; put him in the maiden.”

The wretch had been stuffed into the casement and the door had been closed and latched despite the cries of protestation and excruciating screams of the maiden’s new tenant. The door though, had a small slit in it, and soon the tenant had opened his eyes and looked out to see his tormentors departing with the torches and leaving him in utter darkness. He had ceased his screaming at this point and had begun to pray for death. His prayer had been granted six days later.

Long before the traitor had succumbed to ‘the maiden’ the King, Queen, Phillip and Friar Bede had met to discuss what their response should be to the invasion.

“We should immediately send an envoy to the French requesting they join us in a punitive expedition against the Saxons,” Lord Phillip had said.

“I think we should attack the Count of Lorraine. He poses the greater threat,” the King had said.

“I disagree with both of those ideas. They’ll be expecting something like that. It would be better to shore up our defenses and bide our time for the right moment to strike back,” Friar Bede had advised.

“That is a timid stance to take, Friar. We need to retaliate or they will think us weak,” Lord Phillip had countered.

“Spoken like a soldier but not a strategist,” Bede had said.

“Strategy be damned; do you see this wound on my head?”

“I rest my case,” the Friar had said, turning his palms up in the air.

“What do you think, my queen?” King Charles had asked.

“I think it will take more than brute force or biding time to shore up the weaknesses that have been exposed by this invasion.”

“What will it take?” Friar Bede had asked.

“A diplomatic stroke of genius that will shift the balance of power in this region to our favor.”

“And pray tell what may that be?” the King had asked.

“Making a friend of an enemy.”

“Which enemy; the Duke of Burgundy?” Friar Bede had asked.

“No. The Duke of Burgundy is neither disposed to be our friend, nor geographically positioned to advance our cause.”

“Who is?” the king had asked.

“The Count of Lorraine.”

“You jest,” Lord Phillip had said.

“I do not. Think of it; the Count is a Christian allied with the Saxons only as a fait de convenience. With the right motivation we could win him over to our side.”

“And what would that be?” King Charles had asked.

“A marriage contract.”

“Between who?” Lord Phillip had asked.

“Between Henry and the Count’s daughter of course,” the astute Friar Bede had answered.

“The Count’s only daughter, only heir,” Queen Bernadette had said.

“It could just work,” Friar Bede had said.

“And if it does, our most vulnerable border will be secure and Lorraine will one day pass to Henry’s children,” the Queen had vouchsafed.

“I see the logic of it,” the King had said.

“So do I,” Lord Phillip had said.

“Then we are all agreed,” the Queen had said.

“Yes,” King Charles, Friar Bede and Lord Phillip had said in unison.

“Very well; Friar, are you prepared to travel to Lorraine and present our offer to the Count,” the Queen had asked.

“I most certainly am,” Friar Bede had answered.

“Then pack your rucksack. You have a long journey ahead of you,” Queen Bernadette had said, ending their deliberations.

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