An Unlikely Heir
by Charles C. Cole
King Dunstan (also known as “His Childless Majesty”) was old enough for grandchildren but had no living relatives, no wife, and no heir apparent. There were whispered rumors, in preparation for the eventual end to the monarchy, of a future regional government made up of a committee of self-dealing mayors from his largest villages.
But what did they know about cross-border trade or managing a military campaign? And what would prevent them squabbling over who would live in the palace and who would have access to the treasury vault?
With a de facto heir, the transition of leadership could be smooth and logical and traditional. The kingdom would have stability. Decisions would not be up for debate. The status would have its quo.
But who? How? A riddle? A lottery? Vetted nominations perhaps? Paternity tests? A nearly impossible quest? Dunstan sent for his psychic advisor, the Wardwell Witch. She was a bit of a mystery but never scheming. She wasn’t always deferential or even patient, but she was a consistently confidential sounding board when such was needed.
The massive marble throne never felt more unyielding. Beautiful like one-of-a-kind sculptured art, intimidating for favor-seeking peasants, even dignitaries, while not an ideal spot for a catnap. If Dunstan sat deep, the high back of his seat of power pressed awkwardly against the base of his head, so he perched forward and, without support, his royal back fatigued royally.
The witch appeared from out of the shadows, as if having walked through solid walls, startling Dunstan. “Your Highness requests my presence.” She bowed.
“I know better than to ask how you manage such an entrance. I have a question.”
“I live to serve.”
“Great kings, like great thinkers, are irreplaceable. Fortunately or not, I’m merely a good king, and I’m in need of a worthy successor.”
“Is there a question?”
“Look into your crystal ball and find me the perfect candidate, my mirror-self but younger, an authority figure who demands respect and engenders obedience. Someone known for being wise and fair, practical but passionate, a visionary able to perceive possibilities when others can’t.”
“Done.”
“Done? Because you expected the question?”
“Because I am such a person.”
“A witch?!” Dunstan laughed freely. His audience waited quietly. “True, you come surprisingly close to fitting the bill, I give you that, though you are a tad unconventional. Just because I trust you doesn’t guarantee the bishop or his superstitious flock will.”
“You were expecting, maybe, a decorated soldier?”
“The people will look for a history of brave and selfless deeds that justify the promotion.”
“If Your Majesty appoints another, who will dare disagree and risk your outrage? I’ve heard it said that God Himself is your chief magistrate and the patriarch atop your family tree. Would the founding humanitarian lead you astray?”
“You’re very persuasive.” Dunstan considered. “Hear me out: what if, for legitimacy’s sake, we married — with separate bedrooms of course — you confined your dark magic to the privacy of your quarters — our means of pretending I’ve tamed your feral ways — and I made it clear to one and all that I was fully prepared for my partner bride to continue my legacy?”
“An arranged marriage of convenience, without love or intimacy, while hiding my true self behind locked doors?”
“For the sake of national peace and the promise of the throne.”
“When you put it that way, I must consent.” The witch dropped to her knees, more from the unexpected weight of her future world than due to a sudden sympathy for royal customs.
Dunstan stepped down from his pedestal and reached out both hands gently to assist the witch to her feet. “If you’ve a first name, now might be a time to share it.”
“Agatha.”
“Rise and be recognized, Lady Agatha, future queen of the realm, so that we may practice walking together, side by side. Starting this moment and ever more, you will be in all ways my equal.” A moment’s hesitation on her part. “Unless you have a more pressing engagement?”
Agatha accepted both his large, surprisingly calloused, hands. They radiated warmth like a cup of fresh morning tea and were just as comforting. She let him pull her to her feet. “I am more honored than words can describe.”
In due time, the two were seen riding together, laughing together, and even, on occasion, retiring to the same bedroom. Their unlikely courtship was brief; however, for all too soon, the king was held hostage by a wasting disease that, despite heroic medical efforts, refused to release him. Within a year, one life became half a life, trickling down further from there. At the same time, Queen Agatha, respected counsel to the king, became the mother to two very young boys.
From his deathbed, King Dunstan negotiated a final audience with his wife. The cautious court doctors, fearing that Dunstan’s illness might pass easily from father to child, had asked that the toddlers be kept away.
“Soon, beloved, my transition will be complete. Let’s hope I’m reunited with one father or another; I’m more than ready for a respite from the toll of unflagging leadership. The kingdom will be yours to do with as you please. Take care of her; she has been in the family for a long time.”
“Be at peace, My Lord, for your heirs are healthy and growing.”
“Those you mention must be the squealing sons I’ve heard so much about. This is good news. But it does not change the fact that you are my lawful heir, and they are yours. Let them battle for your affections. Let them fight over childhood games, so long as they’re united when it matters.”
“Your wisdom will be missed,” offered the queen, “as will your affections.”
“We’re a pair of odd ducks, Queen Witch. Continue to be persuasive; the health of the monarchy may depend upon it.”
In the end, beloved “Quirky Queen Ag” reigned long over a prosperous kingdom grateful to her for unrivaled international diplomacy and progressive government.
Copyright © 2022 by Charles C. Cole
