The Noble Knot

Chapter 9

The golden carriage rolled through the streets of The Hague, but inside the velvet-lined interior, the man once known as Teun Van Buren felt like he was being transported in a gilded hearse.

​Six months had passed since the DNA results shattered the quiet life of the Achterhoek farmer. Today, the bells of the Grote Kerk weren't ringing for a mystery; they were ringing for a coronation. The "Lost Prince" was to be formally invested as the Prince of Orange, the first in line to the throne.

​He was no longer Teun. The state had scrubbed that name from his documents, replacing it with Casper Willem Hendrik of Orange-Nassau. He had stopped correcting the staff months ago. To fight the name was to acknowledge the ghost of the man he used to be, and Casper had learned that ghosts only brought pain.

​The Transformation

​The transformation had been startling, even for the King and Queen. They had expected a struggle—a wild horse that needed breaking. Instead, they got a statue.

​The warmth that had once defined Teun—the easy laugh over a beer, the gentle way he handled a newborn calf—had vanished. In its place was a cold, clinical precision. Casper had mastered the history of the House of Orange in weeks. He spoke four languages now, his Achterhoek accent buried under a layer of aristocratic marble. He wore his tailored suits like armor, and his blue eyes, once piercing and steady, were now as unreadable as the North Sea.

​In the dressing room of the palace, Floris watched his brother as a valet adjusted the ceremonial sash across Casper’s chest.

​"You haven't eaten today," Floris noted, his voice quiet. He was the only one who still looked at Casper and saw Teun.

​"I’m not hungry," Casper replied. His voice was a flat, cultured baritone. He didn't look in the mirror. He hadn't truly looked at his own reflection since the day he learned of Aniek’s marriage.

​"The crowds are massive," Floris said, trying to bridge the gap. "They love you. They see you as a symbol of hope. The farmer who came home."

​"They see a fairy tale, Floris. They don't see the cost of the ink used to write it." Casper finally turned, his gaze landing on his brother. "Is the security detail for the Veluwe estate still in place?"

​"Yes. Bram is well. He spends his days in the gardens. He... he still asks about you. He wants to know if you're happy."

​Casper’s jaw tightened, the only c***k in his mask. "Tell him I am a Prince. Happiness isn't in the job description."

​While the brothers stood in the dressing room, Bastiaan lurked in the hallway, his face a mask of feigned loyalty. The last six months had been a humiliation for him. His mother, Beatrix, had been sidelined, and his own position in the line of succession had plummeted.

​But Bastiaan saw what the King didn't: he saw the rift between the brothers. Or rather, he saw the potential for one.

​He caught Floris as he exited the dressing room.

​"He looks magnificent, doesn't he?" Bastiaan whispered, falling into step beside Floris. "Like a King from the old sagas. It’s hard to believe he was shoveling manure just half a year ago."

​"Leave him alone, Bastiaan," Floris snapped.

​"I’m just observing, cousin. He’s taken to it so... naturally. The way he commands the room. The way the King looks at him—with a pride he never quite managed for you. It must be difficult, being the 'spare' after thirty years of being the heir."

​Floris stopped and turned to Bastiaan, his eyes flashing. "I am glad he’s here. I am glad my brother is alive and home."

​"Of course you are," Bastiaan cooed, his voice dripping with poison. "But how long until his 'coldness' turns toward you? He’s the first-born. He has the power now. He’s already demanded the relocation of a criminal and private security for his... former associates. He’s bending the King to his will. Soon, there won't be any room left for the 'second son' in Noordeinde."

​Floris felt a flicker of the jealousy Bastiaan was trying to ignite, but he quickly extinguished it. He remembered the night he found the shredded note. He remembered the look of absolute devastation on Teun’s face.

​"You’re trying to make me hate him because you’re terrified of him," Floris said, stepping closer to Bastiaan. "You should be. Because while I might forgive you for what you did to that girl, Casper hasn't forgotten. And he’s a much more dangerous man than I am."

​Bastiaan’s smile flickered and died. He watched Floris walk away, his mind already churning with a new plan. If he couldn't turn the brothers against each other, he would have to find a way to make the "Farmer King" disqualify himself.

​The ceremony in the Nieuwe Kerk was a blur of incense, organ music, and ancient oaths. Casper stood before the throne, his back straight, his face an impenetrable mask of duty.

​When the King placed the signet ring on his finger, Casper felt the weight of it—a cold, gold anchor. He looked out over the sea of dignitaries, diplomats, and royalty. He saw Saskia Van den Berg, looking at him with a predatory approval. She didn't want a person; she wanted a pillar of the state. He saw Elisa, her eyes hidden behind a veil, her usual spark dimmed by the somberness of the day.

​But most of all, he saw the empty space where his life used to be.

​As the ceremony ended and the royal procession moved back toward the palace, Casper stood on the balcony of the Dam Palace. Thousands of people below were chanting his name—or rather, the name the state had given him.

​"CAS-PER! CAS-PER!"

​He raised a hand in a stiff, regal wave. Beside him, Queen Margriet was weeping with joy, clutching his other hand. She didn't notice that his palm was as cold as ice.

​"They love you, my son," she whispered.

​"They love the crown, Mother," Casper replied, his voice carried away by the wind. "I am just the man standing under it."

​That evening, the palace held a grand gala—a mirror of the thirtieth birthday party where the "baby bootie" had first appeared. Casper moved through the crowd like a shark through a coral reef. He spoke when spoken to, gave the correct smiles, and navigated the complex web of European politics with a ruthlessness that surprised the veteran diplomats.

​He had become "The Serious King-in-Waiting." No one dared to tell him a joke. No one dared to speak of farms or cattle.

​He was standing on the balcony of the ballroom, looking out toward the east, when a figure approached him. It wasn't Floris or the King. It was a man in a simple black suit—the head of his private intelligence detail.

​"Your Highness," the man whispered.

​"Report," Casper said, not turning around.

​"The file you requested from the husband. Evert Janssen. He has purchased three more parcels of land in Hummelo. The funds came from her father, as part of the settlement."

​Casper’s grip tightened on the stone railing. "And Aniek?"

​The agent hesitated. "She is... she has taken a position at the local clinic. She works long hours. She is rarely seen at social events with Mr. Janssen. Our observers say she looks... tired."

​Tired. The word cut through Casper’s armor more effectively than any of Bastiaan’s insults.

​"Does she know?" Casper asked.

​"Does she know what, sir?"

​"Does she know I’m looking?"

​"No, sir. Per your orders, we have remained invisible. But..." The agent paused. "There was an incident yesterday. A courier delivered a package to her house. It was an anonymous gift. A high-end medical textbook she had mentioned wanting years ago. She cried when she saw it, sir. She knew it was from you."

​Casper closed his eyes. He shouldn't have sent it. It was a weakness—a leak in the dam he had built around his heart.

​"Don't do it again," Casper commanded, his voice returning to its iron chill. "Monitor her safety. Ensure the husband treats her well. If he lays a finger on her, I want him in a cell before the sun sets. But do not contact her again."

​"Yes, Your Highness."

​The agent disappeared back into the shadows. Casper stayed on the balcony, the music from the ballroom fading into a dull hum.

​He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, jagged scrap of paper—the only piece of Aniek’s note he had kept. It was the piece that simply said, Please.

​He looked at the gold ring on his finger. He looked at the palace guards standing at attention in the courtyard. He was Casper now. He was a Prince. He was a future King.

​He was the most powerful man in the room, and the most powerless man in the world.

​As the gala wound down, Bastiaan found Casper in the library, staring at a map of the Netherlands.

​"A successful day, cousin," Bastiaan said, pouring himself a brandy. "The markets are up. The Republicans are silent. You've saved the monarchy."

​Casper didn't look up from the map. "I know what you did, Bastiaan. I know you intercepted that note. I know you told her I’d moved on."

​Bastiaan’s hand stilled on the decanter. "Floris has been telling tales, I see. He’s always been prone to imagination."

​Casper turned then, and for the first time in six months, the coldness in his eyes was replaced by something else: a predatory heat. He walked toward Bastiaan, his footsteps silent on the rug.

​"Floris is a good man," Casper said, stopping inches from Bastiaan’s face. "He wants to believe there’s a soul inside you. I don't have that problem. I’ve lived in a world where if a wolf threatens the herd, you don't negotiate with it. You remove it."

​"You wouldn't dare," Bastiaan stammered. "The scandal—"

​"I am the 'Lost Prince,'" Casper whispered, his voice dangerously low. "I can do no wrong in the eyes of the public right now. And I have spent the last six months learning where everybody is buried in this palace. I know about your offshore accounts in the Antilles. I know about the 'donations' you've been taking from the construction lobby."

​Bastiaan’s face went white.

​"You will go to the King tomorrow," Casper commanded. "You will tell him that you wish to serve the country in a diplomatic capacity. Somewhere far. Perhaps South America. Or the South Pacific. You will leave, and you will never return to Noordeinde. If you do, the files I’ve gathered will find their way to the Prime Minister’s desk."

​"You... you're a monster," Bastiaan breathed.

​"No," Casper said, turning back to the map. "I’m a farmer who knows how to weed a garden. Now get out."

​Bastiaan fled the room, his footsteps echoing with panic.

​Casper stood alone in the silence of the library. He placed his finger on the map, on the tiny dot that represented the village of Hummelo. He could send a car. He could use the power of the throne to crush her father, to annul the marriage, to take her back.

​But he looked at the portrait of Queen Margriet on the wall—the woman who had nearly died when he tried to leave. He thought of the stability of the nation, the weight of the history he now carried.

​If he went back for Aniek, he would destroy the monarchy. If he stayed, he would destroy himself.

​He took his finger off the map and walked toward the door.

​"Goodnight, Teun," he whispered to the empty room.

​"Goodnight, Casper," the shadows seemed to whisper back.