The Noble Knot

Chapter 7

The moon hung low over The Hague, a silver sickle cutting through the heavy coastal clouds. Inside Noordeinde Palace, the silence was thick, layered with centuries of etiquette and the muffled footsteps of the Royal Marechaussee.

​Teun moved with the practiced stealth of a man who had spent many nights tracking stray calves through the dark woods of the Achterhoek. He had discarded the Italian silk slippers the valet had left for him, choosing his old, worn leather work boots. They were loud on the marble, but he knew the rhythm of the floor—where the ancient wood groaned beneath the rugs and where the cold stone echoed.

​He reached the shadow of the old stables, his breath hitching as a flashlight beam swept the nearby courtyard.

​"Left, then behind the ivy," a voice hissed from the darkness.

​Elisa stepped out from behind a stone pillar, dressed in an all-black jumpsuit that made her look like a high-society cat burglar. She held a heavy iron key and a keycard she’d likely swiped from her father’s jacket.

​"You’re late," she whispered, her eyes dancing with the thrill of the hunt. "The guard rotation shifted five minutes early. We have exactly ninety seconds before the northern gate sensor reactivates."

​"I had to wait for Floris to stop hovering," Teun muttered, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. "Let’s go."

​They moved like shadows. Elisa led him through a disused service tunnel that smelled of damp earth and coal dust—a remnant of the palace's Victorian heating system. It opened into the back of the royal mews, where rows of ceremonial carriages sat like gilded ghosts. Beyond the mews lay the small, inconspicuous wooden door that led to the outer perimeter wall.

​Elisa fumbled with the key, the lock clicking with a sound that felt as loud as a gunshot in the still night. "The Land Rover is parked two blocks down in a public alley. Once we’re out, we head straight for the A12. We can be back in your village by dawn."

​Teun felt a surge of hope. He could almost smell the manure and the damp grass of his own fields. He could almost see Aniek’s face. He stepped through the door, the cool night air of the city hitting his face—

​And then, the world turned into blinding white.

​Powerful floodlights erupted from the perimeter wall, bathing the alleyway in artificial noon. Teun squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

​"Going somewhere, Casper?"

​The voice was cold, deep, and heavy with the disappointment of a father. King Willem Hendrik stood ten paces away, flanked by four officers of the Marechaussee. Beside him, Floris stood with his head bowed, looking like he’d been physically struck.

​Teun froze. Elisa let out a sharp curse, dropping the keys.

​"I told you he wouldn't stay," the King said, his gaze shifting to Elisa. "And you, Elisa... your father will hear of this. Though I suspect he already knows how difficult it is to restrain you."

​"I’m not a prisoner!" Teun shouted, his voice cracking the silence of the alley. "You can't keep me here! I haven't committed a crime!"

​"The crime is yours to bear if you leave now, Casper," the King replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating low. He stepped into the light, and Teun saw that the King’s eyes were bloodshot, his face pale with a different kind of terror. "Your mother is in the infirmary."

​The anger in Teun’s chest stalled. "What?"

​"The alarm went off in your suite the moment you opened that service door," Floris said, finally looking up. His voice was thick with emotion. "Mother heard the commotion. She thought... she thought you were being taken again. She had a panic attack so severe she collapsed. She’s fainted three times in the last hour, calling your name."

​Teun felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. He didn't know Queen Margriet—not really. To him, she was a woman in a blue dress who smelled like expensive flowers. But he remembered the way she had held his face. He remembered the raw, visceral sob she had let out when she saw him. He was a farmer; he knew the sound of a creature in pain.

​"She’s fragile, Teun," the King said, using the name his son preferred for the first time, a desperate olive branch. "Her heart has been a hollow shell for thirty years. You are the only thing filling it. If you vanish into the night now, I don't think she will survive the morning."

​Teun looked at the open alleyway. Freedom was fifty yards away. Achterhoek was two hours away. Aniek was waiting. But the image of the woman with the soft hands, broken and unconscious because of his flight, pinned him to the spot.

​He felt the weight of the crown for the first time—not as power, but as a leaden shackle.

​"I... I didn't mean to hurt her," Teun whispered.

​"Then come inside," Willem Hendrik commanded, though it sounded more like a plea. "Be the son she needs tonight. We can talk about the future tomorrow. But tonight, do not kill your mother."

​Teun’s shoulders slumped. The defiance drained out of him, replaced by a crushing, gray defeat. He looked at Elisa, who was watching him with a mournful expression. She knew it was over. The cage had successfully used its strongest bar: guilt.

​"Fine," Teun said, his voice hollow. "I’ll go to her."

​The Infirmary and the Vulture

​The royal infirmary was a hushed wing of the palace, white-walled and smelling of ozone and lavender. Queen Margriet lay on a bed of fine linen, her face as pale as the sheets. She was awake now, but her eyes were glassy, darting toward the door every time it creaked.

​When Teun entered, she let out a whimpering cry and reached out.

​Teun sat on the edge of the bed, allowing her to clutch his hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.

​"Don't go," she breathed. "Please. I can't lose you twice. The dark... the dark was so long, Casper."

​"I’m here," Teun said, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. "I’m here, Ma’am."

​From the shadows of the room, a sharp, clicking sound announced the arrival of Princess Beatrix. She walked in with her son Bastiaan trailing behind her like a loyal hound. Bastiaan looked smug, his hands tucked into his pockets, though he took care to look appropriately concerned whenever the King glanced his way.

​"A touching scene," Beatrix said, her voice cutting through the emotional gloom like a razor. "Truly. The prodigal son returns, attempts a midnight flit, and nearly kills the Queen in the process. It’s like a Victorian melodrama."

​"Beatrix, not now," Willem Hendrik warned, his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder.

​"Actually, Willem, exactly now," Beatrix said, stepping into the circle of light. She looked at Teun with a cold, calculating scrutiny. "We are talking about the succession of a three-hundred-year-old monarchy. We are talking about a man who was raised by a criminal, who has no records, no verifiable history other than a wooden box and a 'resemblance.' Before we introduce this... person... to the Estates General, before we announce to the world that the heir has been found, we must be certain."

​She turned her gaze to Teun. "I want a formal DNA test. Supervised by an independent board of physicians. Not palace doctors."

​The room went deathly silent.

​"You doubt my word?" the King asked, his voice trembling with fury. "You doubt the evidence Bram Van Buren provided?"

​"I doubt everything that hasn't been proven in a lab," Beatrix snapped. "What if that guard found a boy who looked like Casper and used him as a shield? What if this is a long-con played by a man facing twenty years in prison? If we put this man on the throne and he is later found to be a fraud, the House of Orange-Nassau is finished."

​Bastiaan stepped forward, nodding. "Mother is right, Uncle. For the sake of the family's integrity. If he is who he says he is, the test will only confirm it. What is there to fear?"

​Teun looked at Bastiaan. He saw the glint in his cousin's eyes—the hope that the test would fail, the hope that Teun would be cast out back into the mud. He thought of the note Aniek had given to this man. He thought of the way Bastiaan had looked at her like she was dirt.

​"I’ll do it," Teun said, his voice loud and clear.

​"Casper, you don't have to," Margriet whispered, clutching his hand tighter.

​"No," Teun said, standing up. He looked at Beatrix, then at Bastiaan. "I’ll do your test. I’ll give you my blood. But I want something in return."

​Beatrix arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And what does a farmer want?"

​"If the test is a match," Teun said, his blue eyes burning with a regal fire that made Bastiaan flinch, "I want my father—Bram—moved to a private facility. No more iron bars. And I want a visitor’s pass for a girl named Aniek. Every day. No guards in the room."

​The King looked at his son, surprised by the sudden emergence of a negotiator.

​"Done," Willem Hendrik said, before Beatrix could object. "The samples will be taken tonight. We will have the results within forty-eight hours."

​As the doctors were called and the palace settled into a tense, clinical waiting period, Bastiaan retreated to the gallery. He felt a bead of sweat on his upper lip. He hadn't expected the farmer to be so bold.

​He walked over to the Ming vase where he had dropped the shredded pieces of Aniek's note. He looked inside, making sure the white scraps were still buried at the bottom.

​"Searching for something, Bastiaan?"

​Floris was standing at the end of the hall, his arms crossed. He didn't look like the gentle, submissive brother anymore. He looked like a man who had been watching the shadows.

​"Just admiring the porcelain, cousin," Bastiaan said, straightening his coat. "It’s a pity. If the DNA test comes back positive, I suppose you'll have to move into the smaller suite. The 'Older Twin' takes the sun, doesn't he?"

​"I don't care about the suite, Bastiaan," Floris said, walking toward him. "And I don't care about the crown as much as you think I do. But I do care about my brother. And I saw you at the gate today. I saw you take something from a girl in a red Polo."

​Bastiaan’s heart skipped. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I was at my club."

​"I checked the gate logs," Floris said, leaning in. "You entered through the pedestrian side at 3:14 PM. The guard remembers you talking to a girl. Where is the note, Bastiaan?"

​"I don't have a note," Bastiaan hissed. "Maybe she was just a fan. Or a beggar."

​Floris looked at the Ming vase, then back at Bastiaan. He didn't reach inside—not yet. He didn't have proof. But he saw the way Bastiaan’s eyes darted toward the porcelain.

​"If you've hurt him," Floris whispered, "if you've kept the one thing that could make him stay willingly... then you aren't just a rival, Bastiaan. You're a traitor."

​Floris turned and walked away, leaving Bastiaan alone with his shredded secrets.

​In his room, Teun sat by the window, a small bandage on the crook of his arm where they had taken the blood. He didn't feel like a Prince. He felt like a man caught between two worlds, both of them trying to tear him apart.

​He looked at the bandage and thought of the "black gold" of his farm. He thought of Bram in his cell. And he thought of Aniek, wondering why she hadn't come, why she hadn't written.

​He didn't know that she was currently sitting in a kitchen in Achterhoek, her father across from her, a wealthy stranger sitting at the table, discussing a dowry. He didn't know that the only bridge between them was currently lying in pieces in a vase.

​He only knew that in forty-eight hours, the blood would speak. And he wasn't sure if he wanted it to tell the truth, or if he wanted it to set him free.