Never forget your wallet in the castle!

Chapter 1

"Once upon a time, far far away there lived a king…"

“No, no, and once more NO!” shouted the king angrily. “It’s boring and old-fashioned. All fairy tales and chronicles start like this. Mine should be different, exceptional, royal!”

“But it is the WAY how chronicles and fairy tales usually start. What’s wrong?” retorted François, and added hurriedly, “Your Majesty.”

“I don’t like it,” frowned the king and looked away. “I expect something modern and blustering, vivid and shiny. You know…” He waved his hand as if he was greeting his servants.

“What about…” François murmured as though he was talking to himself and squinted his small round fox-like eyes.

"In a marvellous magic kingdom, Montyland, there lived a glorious and beloved king…"

François, French troubadour, adventurer, and traveller, and the king, Willy the one hundred and twenty-third, were sitting and discussing how Montyland chronicles would start. François liked travelling and discovering new countries and cultures, and hoped to earn some money here writing Montyland chronicles.

“By the way, Your Majesty, what’s your full name? We need to mention it in the chronicles.” perked up with interest François tossing his curly shoulder-length hair back with his left hand.

“This beginning seems far much better; it sounds royal,” said the king pretending he hasn’t heard François’s question.

“So, what is Your Majesty’s full name? Name and surname?” François didn’t give up.

“Promise you won’t laugh,” the king became serious, wrinkled his bushy eyebrows, and pursed his lips.

“I promise,” the troubadour became alert.

“Hope to die,” the king insisted.

“What?” François’s jaw was on the floor.

“Cross your heart and hope to die.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” repeated obediently François moving his jaw back.

“Willy the one hundred and twenty-third.”

“What? Hohn… hohn… hohn…” François sounded very French and exceptionally evil. “Hohn… hohn… hohn…” He was realising he couldn’t stop and, of course, realising he was in a huge trouble. “I do apologise… hohn… hohn… Your… hohn… Majesty… hohn.”

“I forgive you. The most embarrassing is this – ‘the one hundred and twenty-third’,” grimaced Willy CXXIII.

“Don’t you have a surname?”

All the people in the kingdom had names and numbers, no surnames. Pretty weird thing! Can you imagine to have three brothers, for instance, whose names are John the two hundred and fifteenth, John the two hundred and sixteenth, and John the two hundred and seventeenth; whereas, your father’s name’s John the two hundred and fourteenth; therefore, you are John the two hundred and eighteenth if you are the youngest. François’s head was spinning.

It was Willy’s great grand grand grand grand grand … grandfather’s idea. According to him, it brought clarity and order to many disputes and arguments about, let’s say, inheritance or marriage.

“We live in the modern world, developed and democratic. Haven’t you tried to change it? You are the king, after all!” exclaimed François waving his long thin hands erratically.

“Of course, I have! Being a democratic leader, I held a referendum. I thought it was what my loyal subjects would want, that they would understand the necessity of these changes. So, what do you think? 95% voted against. 95%! Bloody traditionalists!” proclaimed the king angrily, with some regret and disappointment.

“Who voted for? Who are these wise people?” brightened François and grinned showing his unusually white straight teeth. “Of course, you don’t know.”

“I can guess… not all of them… but some… I think. Definitely, Ding Dong the two hundred and forty-eighth and his family. Who else? Oh, Bloody Mary the three hundred and sixty-seventh and her husband Jesus the three hundred and seventy-first.”

“Hohn… hohn… hohn… Bloody English,” smirked François.

“Bloody foreigners… I knew it,” the king’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, for sure, Honeypot the five hundred and ninety-two and her seven daughters and her daughters’ daughters.”

François was laughing his head off.

The day was drawing to a close. The shadows of the trees lengthened, and the rustles in the royal garden became quieter and quieter. The king began to yawn into his sleeve trying to hide it from François and being considered rude; whereas, François's eyelids were becoming unbearably heavy like lead.

... to be continued...