Action Adventure / Untitled Historical Fiction
The light from the candles lining the cold stone room flickered in the breeze as it danced through the open windows. The king’s dark hazel eyes jumped from his lap up to the light, startled by its sudden movement. He’d been sitting in his chair for several hours now, standing only to pace across his pelt-covered floor. Confined to his study… how nerve-racking. He wanted to be there with his wife in the opposite wing of the castle, standing by her side, holding her hand as she brought their son into this world. But damn if that wretched midwife didn’t throw him out like some common thief. Imagine the gall of that servant woman, throwing him, the king, out of his own bedroom. Never mind that its purpose had been altered into that of a birthing chamber for the coming of the newest lord of the manor.
For the past hour, the king had been sitting motionless in his chair, his arms resting on the arms of the chair, supporting the weight of his heavy head. What was taking so damn long? How hard could it be to give birth to one child? How many hours had now gone by as he watched the sky fade from bright blue to dulling violet to stunning orange? Now the sun had been vanished behind the horizon for at last an hour and he’d still received no word of the condition of his son or wife.
He rose again, feeling heavier than usual, weighed down by the bulk of a large fur robe to help shield him from the cold that inevitably seeped in through every crack and crevice in the walls of the palace and into his bed chambers. He moved to the window, closing them with more force than completely necessary, clanging their panes loudly against each other as he latched them shut. The king was not a frail man, one who would easily be uncomforted by the chill of the wind, but tonight, the icy blast was more piercing than he remembered it being in a long while. Even his body, covered by the fur robe that was draped across his broad-shouldered frame, was chilled by the biting cold. What a night for his son to be brought into this world.
“Damn it all!” he said finally, tossing the papers from his desk onto the floor. “What is taking them so bloody long?” He marched to the large wooden door of his study, pulling it open violently by the iron handle, walking out into the hallway.
Everyone was in a commotion, running back and forth as if the castle had become victim to the ravages of a fire, not the birth of a child. Servants passed him, barely even noticing him enough to provide their required courtesies to his station. As a svelte servant girl passed him quickly, her long dark hair bundled up into her servant’s bonnet, the king grasped her by the arm, stopping her advances abruptly. The servant, so startled by the king’s sudden accost, let the vase of hot water tumble from her hands and fall to the floor, smashing into a thousand pieces as it crashed into the stone ground with a loud and resounding crack.
“Do not bother with such trifles,” the king commanded as the girl leaned down to retrieve the broken pieces of terra cotta. “My son?”
The servant swallowed nervously, standing from her half-kneeling position to respond to the king’s inquiry. She avoided the intense gaze of his eyes, knowing that under any other circumstance, she would be docked a month’s pay in recompense for the shattered pitcher. She hastily responded to the king’s question, her voice cracking from the nervousness that was now wracking her body. “Well, Your Highness,” she began, curtsying deeply and looking at the king’s shoes, “her Royal Highness has yet to deliver the child, but the physicians are confident that everything is alright. She is in much pain, I am afraid to say.”
The king’s face wrinkled with concern, not for his wife, but for the child who must be so eager to arrive in this world. What child wouldn’t be anxious to be born into such a life as this one would lead? He would be showered with luxuries from the moment of his entry into the world, taught by the best of academics, nourished by the riched most exotic foods, and most of all endowed with the most highly prized and coveted title in all of Europe, heir to the throne of England.
He couldn’t stand there any longer, waiting in utter frustration, fearing the unknown and yearning for his son’s presence. Without another word to the servant, the king hurried off down the hallway toward the birthing chamber, leaving the servant to attend to the broken vase and water creeping across the floor. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked, the soles of his boots clanking against the floor’s rocky face and bouncing off of the walls as he marched determinately down the hallway toward his bedchamber.
He could hear the screaming from the moment that he entered the hallway leading to the bed chamber, the fiercely feral cries ricocheting around the corridor like a thousand throwing knives. The king marched up to the door in a determined fashion, grasping the iron handle and jerking the door open with a strong pull. Surrounded by a myriad of midwives, servants and physicians, his wife lay in the bed, swathed in fabrics now soaking wet with perspiration and blood. The group, except the queen, looked to see who had entered the room, about to turn the intruder away with a stern lecture about privacy. At sight of the king’s face, they all turned back to their work, none daring to turn him away again.
“What has happened?” the king demanded over the shriek of his wife’s labors, addressing no particular person so much as the room at large. “Has my son yet been born?” As his forceful and authoritative words rang through the room, a new sound graced the ears of those who had been so on edge for so many hours upon end; the sudden cry of an infant, whose head had just breeched the opening of the birth canal. The room sighed in relief, yet the king drew closer, waiting to hear the outcome.
A physician helped the infant to be fully born and tied off the umbilical cord. None made so much as a sound as the doctor turned around, a grim look on his face. The infant was swaddled in blankets of the finest wool and silks, yet none made so much as a sound except for the queen, who had lain back against her pillows in exhaustion.
“My son,” the king said in a prideful voice. “Let me see my son.”
The physician seemed hesitant to speak, yet eventually he opened his mouth, speaking slowly as if afraid of the king’s reaction. “Your Highness, may I present to you your daughter.” With that, he beckoned a nurse forward, who held the baby gently in her arms, despite the loud cries of the infant. The king’s face hardened into a scowl, his temper building up inside of him as he heard the horrible news. A daughter? How could this have happened?
The nurse, sensing the king’s anger, backed slowly away from him, turning to place the baby in the open and waiting arms of the queen. She was abruptly halted by the strong voice of the king, bellowing angrily into the chamber. “No, do not allow that thing anywhere near my wife!” The room seemed to grow unnaturally quiet; all thought was frozen as the situation hinged on the king’s words. The king approached the physician, his mouth now narrowed into a small tight line, his brows deeply furrowed.
“Remove that thing from my sight and do not ever force me to endure its presence again,” the king said icily, glaring at the child still held in the arms of the nurse.
“But Your Highness,” the physician began, astounded by the king’s utter lack of sympathy for his wife and child.
“Do as I say!” the king commanded, glaring coldly at the doctor. “Burn it, bury it, hang it for all I care, but do not ever force me to endure the agony of its presence again.” With that, the king stormed from the room, banging the wooden doors against the wall as he exited, leaving all inside in a state of shock.
All knew that to defy the kings wishes meant a quick drop and sudden stop, but none wished to perform this horrible act. The nurse, who could not help but allow tears to spill from her eyes, held the small infant against her chest, allowing her warm tears to fall softly on her face.
“I will take care of her,” she announced with a horrible hoarseness to her voice. And with that, as the nurse walked from the room with the child clutched against her chest, the queen began to grieve for the child lost to her before its life had even begun to unfold.
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When I saw “historical fiction” I honestly thought “romance,” and as I read through this prologue, it feels even more so. The prologue seems to have nothing to do with action OR adventure.
Moving on. I like this. As a prologue, it’s solid. You’ve established the main characters, sort of given a setting (it’s vague on the time and place. I’m seeing mideival England or France? Need to make that clearer), and outlined the plot – sort of. I anticipate the unwanted daughter will grow up and make trouble for him, or not know who she is until it’s time to take the crown? Could go a lot of directions, which is a GOOD thing – this is your hook.
I can’t tell if he likes his wife or not. First, you paint a picture of a caring husband, but then he has no sympathy for his wife. It seems more in character that he doesn’t really care, and I would change those couple of sentences in the first paragraph to emphasize he cares for her only to the extent that she can bear him sons. I’m surprised he doesn’t blame her for it being a daughter.
I would love the read the work that develops from this!
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Well done for a person as young as you state. There are numerous small problems with the grammar, punctuation, sentence run-ons and the like but nothing that any good editor couldn’t polish up. You kept the tension high which is important, especially in the beginning of the piece. Many stories are remembered for the first sentence and I would go back over your first sentence and make it less unremarkable. The King was furious! is just one of a thousand examples. All in all, I think you have a career in writing if you stick with it. When I was writing magazine articles I used to tack each rejection letter on my writing room wall until the room was almost full of such letters. I figured I was just one more piece shy of getting one published eventually (which I did; more than 500 articles published). So send out query letters to publishers that specialize in your area of fiction. There is a website called Duotrope which lists many paying and non-paying pubs by category (www.duotrope.com). Best of luck to you and remember, all you need is love. John T.
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