The Noble Knot

Chapter 8

The forty-eight hours following the DNA draw were the longest in the history of the House of Orange-Nassau. The palace felt like a ship held in the eye of a hurricane—eerily still, yet vibrating with the pressure of the storm to come.

​Floris spent those hours in a state of quiet, focused obsession. He couldn't shake the image of the Ming vase in the gallery and the look of guilt on Bastiaan’s face. He waited until the early hours of the second morning, when the night watch was at its most sluggish, to slip back into the portrait gallery.

​He reached into the deep, cold porcelain of the imperial vase. His fingers brushed against something light and papery. He pulled out a handful of white scraps.

​He retreated to his study, spreading the fragments across his desk like the pieces of a broken heart. It took him three hours to reconstruct the puzzle. Using clear tape and a pair of tweezers, he watched the jagged edges of a nightmare form into words.

​...don't know how much longer I can hold on... my father is talking about a marriage... he wants me away from the "Royal Mess"... Please, Teun. Tell me what to do.

​Floris felt a cold wave of nausea. He looked at the date at the top of the note. It was written two days ago. He checked his watch; it was nearly 6:00 AM.

​"Godverdomme," Floris hisselde.

​He didn't call a servant. He grabbed his phone and dialed a private number—a contact in the Royal Marechaussee who owed him a favor from his university days.

​"I need a location on a red Volkswagen Polo," Floris commanded, his voice tight. "Registered to an Aniek Hendriks in Achterhoek. And I need it five minutes ago."

​While Floris waited, the palace began to wake. The independent board of physicians had arrived. The results were in a sealed black envelope, carried by the Chief of Staff under armed escort.

​The Great Hall was drafty despite the roaring fires in the twin hearths. King Willem Hendrik and Queen Margriet sat in the center of the room, their hands entwined. Teun stood to the side, still wearing his flannel shirt—now laundered by the palace staff but still smelling faintly of the barn. He looked like a man awaiting a sentence, not a crown.

​Princess Beatrix and Bastiaan stood opposite them, their faces masks of aristocratic indifference.

​The Chief of Staff stepped forward, breaking the wax seal. The sound of the paper tearing was like a gunshot.

​"The results of the comparative analysis between the samples provided by His Majesty the King and the individual known as Teun Van Buren are as follows," the official read, his voice devoid of emotion. "The markers show a 99.99% probability of paternal relation. The markers for Queen Margriet show an identical 99.99% maternal match."

​He paused, looking up at the silent room.

​"Teun Van Buren is, without any scientific doubt, Prince Casper Willem Hendrik of Orange-Nassau. The first-born son. The rightful heir."

​Margriet let out a sob of pure, unadulterated joy, throwing her arms around Teun’s neck. The King stood, his eyes shining with a triumph that seemed to erase ten years of aging from his face.

​Even Beatrix was forced to bow her head in a stiff, begrudging acknowledgment. But Bastiaan’s face turned a sickly shade of gray. He looked at the floor, his hands curling into fists.

​Teun didn't cheer. He didn't smile. He felt the weight of the 99.99% pressing down on him like a mountain of lead. He was no longer a farmer. He was a piece of state property.

​"I want my father moved," Teun said, his voice cutting through the Queen's tears. He looked at the King. "That was the deal. Bram leaves the jail today."

​"He will be moved to the Veluwe estate this afternoon," the King promised. "He will have the best care, and no bars. You have my word as a King, and as your father."

​"And Aniek?" Teun asked. "The pass? I want to call her. I want her here."

​Just then, the heavy doors of the Great Hall swung open. Floris burst in, his hair disheveled, his face pale. He was holding a tablet in one hand and the reconstructed note in the other.

​He didn't look at the King. He didn't look at the doctors. He went straight to Teun.

​"Teun," Floris said, his voice breaking. "I’m sorry. I was too late."

​Teun’s heart plummeted. "What are you talking about? Where is she?"

​Floris looked at the King, then at Bastiaan, his eyes flashing with a sudden, murderous rage. "Our cousin intercepted a note from Aniek two days ago. He tore it up and hid it. It was a plea for help. Her father was forcing her into a marriage to 'save her reputation' from the scandal of being associated with us."

​Teun grabbed Floris by the shoulders, his grip like iron. "Where is she, Floris?"

​Floris looked down at his tablet. "I had the Marechaussee track her phone and her father's vehicle. They... they reached a small chapel in Winterswijk an hour ago."

​"So? Drive me there! We can stop it!" Teun shouted, already turning toward the door.

​"Teun, stop," Floris whispered, grabbing his arm. "The local unit just sent a sit-rep. The ceremony is over. They’ve already signed the register. She... she’s married, Teun. Her father moved the date up because of the rumors that the Palace was going to claim you today. He wanted her 'protected' before the media circus arrived."

​The world went silent for Teun. The gold on the walls, the royal crests, the expensive perfumes—it all vanished. He felt like he was standing in a field of ice.

​"Married?" Teun repeated, the word sounding foreign.

​"Her father’s men informed our agents at the gate," Floris continued, his voice dropping. "It was a private ceremony. No phones, no press. Just a quick, legal binding to a landowner's son. Her father told her that you had sent word through Bastiaan... that you were staying at the palace and didn't want to see her again."

​Teun spun around, his eyes finding Bastiaan.

​The Prince-cousin tried to back away, but Teun was across the room in three strides. He didn't use a royal scepter; he used the heavy, calloused hand of a farmer. He grabbed Bastiaan by the throat and slammed him against a marble pillar.

​"You told her I didn't want her?" Teun roared, the sound echoing off the high ceilings like thunder.

​"I... I did what was best for the Crown!" Bastiaan wheezed, his face turning purple. "She was a distraction! A peasant! You’re a King now!"

​"I am nothing!" Teun screamed, his fist pulled back.

​"Casper, stop!" The King’s voice boomed, but it was the Queen’s hand on his arm that made Teun hesitate.

​"Don't do this," Margriet pleaded, tears streaming down her face. "Don't let him turn you into a monster on the day you come home."

​Teun looked at Bastiaan—the small, terrified man who had destroyed his life with a few scraps of paper. Then he looked at his biological parents, who stood in their finery, surrounded by the power that had indirectly ended his happiness.

​He released Bastiaan, who slumped to the floor, coughing and gasping.

​Teun turned to Floris. "Is it legal? Can it be undone?"

​Floris looked at the floor. "Her father had the Bishop of the region perform it. Under Dutch law and Church protocol, it's binding. To annul it would take months, maybe years, and it would require her to testify against her own family. And Teun... they say she was... she looked like she’d given up. She thinks you abandoned her."

​Teun felt a jagged, cold break in his chest. He looked at the Chief of Staff, who was still holding the DNA results.

​"You wanted a Prince?" Teun said, his voice low and terrifyingly calm.

​He walked over to the mahogany table and picked up the black envelope. He looked at the 99.99% match.

​"You have him," Teun said. "You have your heir. You have your DNA. And in exchange, you've taken everything else. You took my father, you took my farm, and now you’ve let this snake take the woman I love."

​He looked at the King. "I’ll stay. I’ll wear your suits. I’ll stand on your balconies. I’ll do the DNA tests and the speeches. But don't you ever ask me to love this. And don't you ever ask me to forgive you."

​Teun turned and walked out of the Great Hall. This time, no one tried to stop him. The guards stepped aside, their heads bowed.

​He didn't go to the infirmary. He didn't go to the conservatory. He went to the portrait gallery and found the Ming vase. He reached inside and pulled out the remaining dust of Aniek’s note—the tiny, white scraps that Bastiaan had missed.

​He sat on the floor beneath the painting of the first King of the Netherlands, a man who had won a country but lost his peace. Teun pressed the scraps of paper to his lips, the scent of the Achterhoek—faint, but there—clinging to the fibers.

​Inside the Great Hall, the King turned to his security chief. "Find the man she married. Find out every debt he has. Every secret. I want a file on my desk by morning."

​"It won't matter, Willem," Queen Margriet said, her voice hollow as she watched the door where her son had disappeared. "We have his blood. But we’ve lost the boy."

​Outside, the bells of the Grote Kerk began to ring, announcing to the city of The Hague that the mystery of the Lost Prince was solved. The people in the streets cheered, waving orange flags, celebrating a miracle they didn't realize was a tragedy.

​In a small, cold chapel in the east, Aniek sat in the passenger seat of a car she didn't recognize, a gold band heavy on her finger, looking out at the rain and wondering how a Prince could forget a farmer so quickly.

​And in the palace, Casper of Orange-Nassau closed his eyes and tried to remember the smell of the north pasture, even as the gold leaf of the ceiling began to feel like the roof of a tomb.