The Noble Knot

Chapter 2

The morning mist clung to the rolling hills of the Achterhoek like a damp wool blanket. In this corner of the Netherlands, the world didn't move to the frantic ticking of the Hague’s clocks or the buzzing of Amsterdam’s tourists. Here, time was measured in the rhythm of the harvest, the breath of the cattle, and the slow, steady hum of the milking robots.

​Teun stood at the edge of the north pasture, his boots sinking into the rich, dark "black gold" of the Gelderland soil. He was a man of thirty, built with the broad shoulders of someone who had spent his life lifting hay bales and wrestling stubborn calves. His hair was dark—not the golden blonde of the royal line that flickered on the television news, but a deep, earthy brown that looked nearly black when wet with the morning dew.

​He wiped a smear of grease from his forehead, his blue eyes—startlingly clear against his tanned skin—surveying the perimeter fence.

​"Stupid sensors," Teun muttered, kicking a wooden post. The high-tech modernization of the farm was supposed to make his life easier, but Teun still trusted his own eyes more than an app on his phone.

​"Talking to the fence again, Teun? It won't talk back, no matter how much Grolsch you gave it last night."

​Teun turned to see his father, Bram, walking toward him. Bram was a man shaped like a gnarled oak tree, his face a map of sixty years of outdoor labor. He walked with a slight limp—a souvenir from a winter when the ice had been thicker than his luck—but his grip on his coffee mug was steady.

​"The sensor says there’s a break near the creek," Teun said, his voice a low, melodic baritone. "But the wire is fine. It’s just the damp getting into the circuitry. We should have stuck to the old galvanized wire and a good dog."

​Bram chuckled, leaning against the gate. "The world is changing, son. Even in the Back Corner. You brought this farm into the twenty-first century. Those robotic milkers let you sleep until six instead of four. Don't complain about a glitchy sensor."

​Teun looked out over the fields. He loved this land with a quiet, fierce intensity. While his peers had fled to the cities to sit in glass offices, Teun felt a bone-deep connection to these few hundred acres. It was a sense of belonging so absolute it was almost biological.

​"Suppose you're right," Teun conceded. "How’s the mother?"

​"Busy," Bram said, jerking a thumb back toward the farmhouse. "She’s got the radio on. Some big to-do at the Palace. The Prince is thirty today. She’s obsessed with the coverage. You know how she is—any time there’s a royal birthday, she starts acting like we’re invited to the ball."

​Teun felt a strange, inexplicable prickle at the back of his neck, a sensation he often got when a storm was rolling in over the German border. "Thirty, huh? Same as me."

​"Aye," Bram said, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second, a shadow passing over his face so quickly Teun almost missed it. "Same as you. Only he’s got a crown, and you’ve got a manure spreader. I think you got the better end of the deal."

​"I know I did," Teun grinned, his quick wit flickering. "He has to wear a tie. I haven't worn a tie since Dirk’s wedding, and even then, I think I used it to tow a car home."

​The morning progressed with the familiar, comforting labor of farm life. Teun spent three hours in the barn, checking the health stats on the computer and then manually inspecting the udders of a cow he suspected was developing mastitis. He was a man of few words, but he spoke to the animals in a soft, rhythmic whistle that they seemed to understand perfectly.

​Around noon, a bright red Volkswagen Polo zipped up the gravel driveway, tires crunching loudly.

​Aniek hopped out, her blonde ponytail swinging. She was wearing her nurse’s scrubs, having just finished a night shift at the regional hospital in Doetinchem. She was the fire to Teun’s earth—vibrant, talkative, and the only person in the village who dared to tell him when he was being stubborn.

​"Happy birthday, you old grump!" she shouted, jogging over and throwing her arms around his neck before he could warn her about the dirt on his coveralls.

​"It’s just another Saturday, Aniek," Teun said, though he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his mouth. He picked her up easily, swinging her around.

​"It is not! You are thirty. The big three-zero," she said, pulling back to look at him. She reached up, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. "You look older today. More... serious."

​"That’s just the lack of caffeine," Teun joked.

​"No," she said, her brow furrowing slightly as she studied his face. "There’s something else. Have you seen the news? It’s all over the internet. Something happened at the Palace during the Prince’s gala. A security breach. They say someone sent a message about the lost twin."

​Teun felt that prickle again. "The one who was kidn*pped? That was a lifetime ago, Aniek. People love conspiracy theories."

​"They found a bootie, Teun. A baby shoe," she whispered. "The King looked like he’d seen a ghost. Everyone is talking about it. Even the patients at the hospital were sitting up in bed watching the livestream."

​Teun shrugged, turning back to his tractor. "Wealthy people have problems. Up here, we worry about the price of milk and whether the rain will hold off for the haying. Let the royals have their drama."

​"You don't find it strange?" Aniek persisted, following him. "You and the Prince share a birthday. You're exactly the same age. And you... well, you don't exactly look like your dad, do you?"

​Teun stopped. He looked at Bram, who was across the yard, struggling with a heavy bag of feed. Bram was short, stocky, with a round face and nose that had been broken twice. Teun was tall, lithe, with a sharp, regal nose and high cheekbones.

​"I look like my mother’s side," Teun said firmly, though a seed of discomfort planted itself in his gut. "The Van Burens were all tall."

​"I’m just saying," Aniek teased, sensing his tension and trying to lighten the mood. "If it turns out you’re a long-lost Prince, I expect a much nicer car than this Polo. And a tiara. Definitely a tiara."

​"You’d look ridiculous in a tiara," Teun said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Come on. If we’re going to the meet tonight, I need to finish fencing."

​By eight o’clock that evening, the heavy work was done. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the Achterhoek sky in bruises of purple and gold. Teun had showered away the scent of the barn, replaced it with the smell of pine soap, and put on a clean flannel shirt.

​The keet was a converted shipping container nestled at the back of his friend Dirk’s property. It was a rite of passage for the local youth—a place where the music was too loud, the beer was always cold Grolsch, and the world’s problems were solved over clouds of cigarette smoke and the roar of laughter.

​As Teun and Aniek walked in, the room erupted.

​"There he is! The Birthday Boy!" Dirk yelled, shoving a cold green bottle into Teun’s hand.

​The atmosphere was electric. About fifteen of them were crammed into the space, the walls decorated with old license plates and neon beer signs. A small TV in the corner was muted, showing rolling footage of the Royal Gala, but no one was paying attention. They were too busy shouting over a techno-remix of a Dutch folk song.

​"To Teun!" They cheered. "Thirty years of being the slowest driver in the province!"

​Teun grinned, taking a long pull of his beer. This was his kingdom. These were the people who knew him—not as a title or a symbol, but as the guy who had pulled Dirk out of a ditch last November and the man who could calibrate a milking robot with a screwdriver and a prayer.

​"So, Teun," Dirk said, leaning in, his face red with beer and excitement. "If you were the King, what’s the first thing you’d do? Taxes? Law and order?"

​"Legalize tractors on the highway," Teun shot back without missing a beat. "And make Grolsch free on Saturdays."

​The group roared with approval.

​Aniek sat on a hay-bale stool, watching Teun. He was in his element, laughing with his friends, his dry wit cutting through the noise. But she noticed the way his eyes kept drifting, almost unconsciously, to the muted TV in the corner.

​On the screen, Prince Floris was standing on a balcony, looking out at a crowd. The Prince looked haunted. He looked like a man who was searching for something he couldn't name.

​Suddenly, the music cut out. Dirk had accidentally tripped over the power cord. In the sudden, jarring silence, the audio from the TV became audible.

​"...the Palace has issued no formal statement regarding the item dropped by the drone, but sources close to the King suggest the investigation has been reopened with 'extreme priority.' For the first time in three decades, the Royal House is acknowledging the possibility that Prince Casper may be alive."

​The keet stayed silent for a moment. All eyes turned to the screen, then, slowly, one by one, they turned to Teun.

​The resemblance wasn't in the hair color or the shape of the jaw. It was in the eyes. The same piercing, steady blue eyes that were currently staring at the screen in shock.

​"Godverdomme," Dirk whispered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Teun... you have the same look. Right there." He pointed at the screen.

​Teun felt a cold sweat break out across his shoulder blades. "It’s a coincidence, Dirk. There are seventeen million people in this country. Half of them have blue eyes."

​"Not those eyes," Aniek said softly, her voice trembling.

​Teun slammed his beer bottle down on the wooden crate that served as a table. The glass didn't break, but the sound was like a gunshot in the small room.

​"I’m a farmer," Teun said, his voice hard, dropping into the thick accent of the region to emphasize his point. "I’m the son of Bram and Hendrika. My family has been on this land for a hundred years. I don't care about booties, or drones, or princes. I have cows to milk at five a.m."

​He turned and walked out of the keet, the screen door slamming behind him.

​The night air was cold, smelling of damp grass and manure. Teun walked toward the farmhouse, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wanted to go to bed. He wanted to wake up and find that the world was still small, still simple, still his.

​But as he approached the house, he saw a light on in his father’s study—a room Bram rarely used.

​Teun stepped up to the porch and looked through the window.

​His father, Bram, was sitting at the desk. He wasn't looking at farm accounts. He was holding an old, battered wooden box. In his hand was a piece of paper—yellowed with age—and a photograph that Teun had never seen before.

​Bram’s shoulders were shaking. He was crying—a soundless, racking grief that Teun had never witnessed in his life.

​Teun stayed in the shadows, frozen. He looked at his hands—the hands of a farmer, stained with the soil of the Achterhoek. He thought of the note the drone had carried: The whole prince is waiting.

​He didn't go inside. He turned and walked back into the darkness of the fields, the "black gold" beneath his feet suddenly feeling like shifting sand.

​The crown was hundreds of miles away in The Hague, but for the first time in thirty years, Teun realized the cage had always been right here, in the Back Corner.