7 – The Crowned Toad

The old toad had stolen the crown again. He sat on a rock by the moat-fed pond and called to any and all young women who happened to pass by. Pretending to be a frog – nay, a frog prince – just so he could get a kiss. The lecherous old bastard.
     It was the children’s fault, really. They kept smuggling him into the throne room, persuaded by that slimy silver tongue of his to let him try the crown on for size. And then, after the third (or was it fourth?) time, when the king himself had spanked them both raw, they started smuggling the crown out to the duplicitous creature.
     One would think His Majesty, respected for the wisdom so rarely found in monarchs, would have instilled some sense into his young offspring. But no, princess Maryam, seven (and firstborn, don’t forget) and prince Zachary, four (and a half, if you please!) seemed to shrug off good sense like a lotus leaf did water. The royal siblings were bold, to be sure, and not a little sneaky. But with no prudence to temper it, boldness errs on the side of stupidity, and sneakiness lends itself to thievery.
     It was no surprise, then, that the fat old amphibian had once more acquired the spiked, golden circlet with the aid of two rather highborn delinquents. In their eyes, he paid fairly for their assistance. Stories were their salary – grand tales of empires past, exotic princes and princesses battling fearsome dragons, and visions of a strange future. For all his (copious) flaws, the pretender toad was a masterful narrator.
     How else could he convince even grown women to put their lips on his warty skin? None of the local girls would go anywhere near him, mind. They knew better – as any girl should. But some of the merchants and travellers, newly arrived maids and farmer’s daughters, were apparently lotus leaves to whatever droplets of wisdom must have come their way. Or perhaps they were just dreaming of riches and fancy balls, as anyone does, but more than most do. Now, get my meaning right: the toad-kissers were few. But the high road rubbed the castle’s outer walls like a cat did a leg, so there were plenty enough of the fair sex passing each day that the supposed frog prince found a willing one almost daily. Twice some Sundays!
     By now you must wonder why this girl-kissing, regal-progeny-fooling, crown-stealing toad had not been speared or crushed or nailed to a plank to dry slowly. The answer lies in his role as a storyteller. More than just the king’s children came to listen to the mottled green fabulist. On market days, the gathering audience would swell to such numbers that those closest to the toad risked getting more than their feet wet, and those on the furthest edges of the crowd could barely hear even his most arduous stage voice. Old and young, rich and poor, natives and out-of-towners all jostled for a spot by the pond. It simply would not do to murder such a popular attraction. It would not be wise.
     But a thief was a thief, and at the very least one had to give the toad a stern warning (for the seventh time) and retrieve the stolen goods. Especially a king’s property. So on this particular market day, the enthralled listeners found themselves shoved aside as the azure-liveried members of the Royal Guard made their way to the water. They had come for a crowned amphibian, but to their surprise found two. For next to the grand old toad – and causing him some dismay – sat a slender, bright-green and, by contrast, rather handsome frog. With a lustrous, ruby-set tiara on its head. It began to speak:
     “Ladies and gentlemen, burghers, farmers, and Your Royal Highnesses. I am Duchess Mirabelle of Liedenbourg, and I come before you today to seek justice from an impostor. Mister Toad – J’accuse!”