Lakota Princess

Dedication

To my best buddy, Esther Lotz.

Thank you for the inspiration.

And to all those who helped:

Jeanne Miller, whose continued assistance is completely invaluable to me;

Dan Stover, Jr., for all his suggestions and well-thought-out input;

Lyssa Keusch, my editor, for her delicate touch and wisdom;

Trina Elstner, for her wonderfully creative artistry and suggestions;

and to Dan, for all his magical influence in my life.

Actual Historic Events

1810 King George III goes insane

1811-1820 George IV rules England as Prince Regent

1817 Charlotte, only daughter of the Prince Regent, dies, giving birth to a stillborn baby boy

1820 King George III dies

1820-1830 George IV rules England as Sovereign

1830 King George IV dies

1830-1837 William IV rules England

1837 King William dies

1837 Victoria becomes Queen of England

Preface

A Fable

This story has been told and retold around many a Lakota campfire; it’s a simple story, a mere fable, with nothing to base it on but the whim of fantasy—or so we are told. But there are some who believe this story to be true, some who believe in the force and power of love. And it is to those believers that the following story is dedicated…

Terrified, the Earl from a country across a vast sea, pushed the lone horse into a run over a wide Lakota prairie, a young princess asleep in his arms. From the shores of a country called England, to the American Colonies, into what the white man called the Canadian Providence, the Earl fled, and never far from his mind was a promise he had made to his heartfelt love in that land far away.

The Earl had thought to escape his and the Princess’s enemies in America and, failing this, in the Canadian Providence. In these places he had hoped to fade into anonymity.

But it was not to be. The man had barely escaped this time with his life—and hers, the Princess.

The Earl knew he couldn’t fail now, he being the last hope of his King; he being the last protector of the Princess. The King’s power was gone now. The monarch’s daughter, the Earl’s own dearest love, lay dead. Neither the King nor his daughter was able to protect their heir, the young Princess, from an unscrupulous enemy who lay unseen and unknown.

A king’s position must be powerful, indeed, for so many to lust after it; yet, the King could do nothing to save his granddaughter, since he could not fight a hidden enemy. We did not understand such unwarranted ambition, since we of the Lakota Nation have no monarchy, no kings or queens, no princesses. And no ethics it would seem, no compassion, not even the voice from their own god would hinder the Princess’ unseen enemy. In consequence, this Earl sought the safety of the Princess, for she and only she could dispute the right of accession to the throne of England.

She had little protection, few people even knowing she existed. The facts of her birth, the mystery surrounding that event, were so little known, even we did not understand it all until later…much, much later. At first, all we knew was what we could see: the extreme danger to the Earl and to the child. And so it is that we learned this Earl, the child’s last hope, had no choice but to run, rarely stopping to eat, barely even sleeping. These enemies of the King, and of the young child, would never relent, never end the pursuit; not until their goal was accomplished—the Princess breathing no more.

The Earl fled on into the west, the enemy never far behind. Through forests, over prairie, down waterways, he fled, terrified, never sure how far behind the enemy followed—never losing sight of the danger.

Then one night, exhausted, both the Earl and the Princess slept, unable to deny the toll their flight had exacted from them, unable to press forward.

And that is how our Lakota men found them. At first they had appeared more animal than human, their clothing tattered rags, their hair knotted and unkempt, their bodies dirty. And certainly when they awakened to find themselves being watched by three of our men, they had known fear. But we showed them kindness, not torture or worse, and soon this Earl and his young Princess, became our friends.

To our men’s surprise, both the Princess and the Earl wept, explaining that it had been so long since either had received friendship, that they were overcome with grief. And the Earl tried to warn our men of the danger that followed them, but it made no sense to us since we were in our own territory and could disappear without a trace. So our men laughed at the danger, took these two people into our care, treated them with kindness, and gave them our protection.

A few years passed within our village. Good years. Peaceful years. Under our guardianship, the Princess, a child of no more than nine years of age, became more considerate of others.

Yet, despite all the good with us, the Earl grew unsettled and anxious to know what had happened to the affairs of a country so far away.

And so the Earl left us, leaving the girl within our care.

More years passed and the girl blossomed and flourished, learning to cherish our four Lakota virtues for women: truthfulness, bravery, generosity, and childbearing. We showered her with love, we treated her as though she were one of our own, we tolerated her outbursts and taught her the art of listening. And gradually, so slowly we at first didn’t notice, a change came over this Princess and it appeared to us that love itself had dissolved the young girl’s selfishness until she, in turn, began to love us.

And though her hair gleamed pale in the light of day, she came to bear more likeness to us than to any other people.

Then one day the Earl returned, insisting that the Princess must leave us, must accompany him to this place across the vast sea. He insisted that her position in this far-off place was now safe.

We knew not of this land, nor did the Princess recall it well, and the Earl soon found he had to reckon with the spirit of the young girl, for she did not wish to return.

She refused to listen to her old guardian, reasoning that we were her people now—not some other people across a great sea. Besides, something else had happened, something more precious than all the peoples in the world. She had fallen in love; a rare, nourishing love it was, as fresh and as beautiful as the prairie under a rising sun. And she cherished this one she loved above all else.

But the Earl, her old guardian, refused to listen, refused to compromise. She, the Earl said, had urgent responsibilities. Others depended upon her.

The girl despaired, for even our oldest chiefs, much as they loved her, agreed with the Earl. And soon these chiefs, as well as the Earl convinced her that she must return to her “home” across the sea.

A dismal gloom of gray clouds hung over our land the day that she left; the misty rain, the rumble of thunder unsettling, foretelling of dangers and troubles yet to come. We knew she struggled to keep her composure; none of her feelings were witnessed in her bearing, and we looked upon her with pride.

Bidding us good-bye, she cried, promising to return, and we saw her gaze seek out that one special person: he who would have been her husband, her love.

We saw their eyes meet; we knew their hearts touched, saw hers silently breaking. And we knew that she would never forget him.

And he in turn, this young Indian brave, made a silent promise as he watched her leave: a vow to protect her, to love her, and never to leave her in thought, in deed, in fact, forever.

Prologue

England, November 3, 1817

Midnight

The scream shook the villa at Claremont.

The tall, handsome man hesitated for only a second, then darted up the stairs as though suddenly fired from hell. Once at the landing he raced down the hall, reaching out for the door at the same time the door opened from within.

He ran straight into one of the doctors. Though stunned, the royal physician recovered at once. “It is good you are here, my friend,” the doctor said without preamble, clasping the other man’s shoulders.

“Is she—?”

“She still lives.”

The tall man sighed, looking up. Only then did he notice the tears still raw on the doctor’s cheeks, only then did he see the fatigue etched into a face that was itself a testimony of the struggle for life that had occurred these past fifty hours. Only then did he know.

“No!” The word hung in the air as though sworn. The tall man shook off the physician’s hold. “No! Surely the Lord would not take her from us so soon! This cannot be!”

“Come.” The physician, too weary to argue, simply ushered the Earl of Langsford toward the inner chamber. “There is little time. Hurry, for I must summon her husband.”

“No!”

But the man’s protest was in vain. He realized it as soon as he entered her chambers.

His beautiful love, Charlotte, lay pale against the pillows, looking more shadow than real flesh. Her eyes were sunken and closed, her breathing shallow. The silken sheets, the woolen blankets, even the coverlet of the finest linen were all stained in blood—birthing blood.

He rushed forward, kneeling at the bed, wishing he could endow her with his own energy, and as his larger hand encompassed hers, he saw it—the babe, the dead baby boy. A stillborn birth. It lay beside her and she hugged it as though it were a living thing.

“Isn’t she sweet?”

In that moment he knew she was delirious. He looked at the only woman he had ever loved, a woman he had never known physically, yet a woman he still loved beyond all reasoning. And he realized then that the physician had plied her with too much wine in an effort to ease her pain, the long birthing hours now behind her. And so the Earl smiled at her tolerantly, the way he always did when she had been too willful, saying merely, “Beautiful.”

He knew it as soon as he’d spoken. These moments were all he had left with her. His beautiful, spoiled, dear Princess would not live to see the morning sun. He wished for a few more hours out of time. Just a few. Enough to tell her he had always enjoyed her outbursts, her ill-manneredly, wild, behavior.
This,
he swore, a few more hours with her, he deserved, he craved.

Her lips were pale, almost purple, as she looked at him, but still she smiled.

“It’s a girl,” she whispered, then coughed.

“Do not strain yourself with speech, my dearest Charlotte,” he said, wishing she were not delirious in these, her last few minutes on earth.

She smiled again, then said simply, “I must.”

“No, tomorrow. We will talk tomorrow.”

“You must know that I will not be here on the morrow—”

“No!”

She sighed, closed her eyes and seemed to drop away.

And the man, barely daring to breathe, squeezed her hand.

She took a strained breath and with eyes still closed said, “Keep her safe, my dear Earl. Promise me this. This is all I will ask of you.”

She opened her eyes, staring straight at him, and the Earl of Langsford swallowed hard. What could he say to a being whose dreams were dying? Did he tell her truthfully that such a babe did not exist? But then his beautiful, sweet love smiled at him, and the Earl knew he would say anything, anything to ease her mind.

“Keep her safe. She is a part of me, my good Earl,” Charlotte said. “Remember this.”

“I promise,” was all he managed to say.

Again, she smiled before whispering, “You will always be my dearest, best friend.”

He could barely speak, but at last, drawing her hand to his lips, he whispered, “And I, my dear Charlotte, will be your friend always—beyond the flesh. And you,” he said, “remember this.”

She seemed to smile, the gesture faint, just as Leopold, her husband rushed into the room.

“Leo,” she whispered, “my love.”

Her husband hurried toward her, taking her hand and as he did so, the Earl arose, stepping back, off
to the side.

She smiled at Leopold then, one last time, and as she sank back into the pillows, the life force, the essence of who and what she was, took wing, departing this, its worldly flesh.

And Leopold, with one final kiss, relinquished his beloved’s hand.

“Take it!” Leopold told the physician, who had just touched his shoulder. “Take the dead baby from my sight.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

At that moment Leopold, minor Prince of a petty German duchy, looked to his wife. He frowned, then said, “With you, my dear wife, go all my love; with you dies all my ambition. I regret the babe did not live. For through it I would have been reminded always of your stubborn, free spirit. Through it, I would have ruled England. But now, my love, I am a conquered man.”

Prince Leopold, who had only recently, and by marriage, become an English subject, didn’t look up, didn’t notice the doctor’s departure, didn’t observe the physician’s discreet handling of the baby, didn’t see him sneak into and out of the Princess’s adjoining chamber, and certainly never dreamed that the court’s physician had heard his every word.

The Earl of Langsford, however, had seen everything, had heard everything and made careful notes of everything.