The Poet Prince

 Once upon a time there was a prince who entered into a disadvantageous marriage. Indeed, he was so belittled for his choice that he lost all his wealth and all his privilege. In point of fact, when the news spread the day after the secret affair that had only been between a woman, a priest, and a witness, he was thrown out of his father's palace with nothing left but the clothes he wore.

    Yet he loved his bride.

    And so he took to finding a home for them, which he did, in a poor village, in a poorer house, and soon the bride found herself with child.

    The prince, for all his courtly ways and intellectual manners, was at a loss as to how to support a wife so sickly she could do nothing save vomit into bowls. He sat and stared at the wall and thought. For he had to do something.

    When the wall offered no inspiration, the prince went to sleep.

    Upon waking, he was still at a loss. So he walked around the village until he saw the baker loaded with bread and offered to make the man's deliveries. The baker repaid him with a loaf. He carried the mending for the seamstress, and she spared two apples. He walked outside the village and saw an older man struggling with his hoeing, and so the prince set to do it; the man gave him three small copper pieces. After going home to his retching wife, he took his copper pieces and gave them to the wise old witch who lived beyond the old man's farm. The witch in turn gave him a potion for his wife, and something else besides: a pen and some ink. Find parchment or vellum or cloth and make use of it, the witch said. The prince muttered his thanks, swallowing an emotion he did not understand. And when he got home, as his wife slept peacefully, he stared at a rag he had begged off a seamstress, and composed a poem.

    When the poem was complete, it was strange. It was filled with flourishes, yet woven like pain. And near the court of his father the king, it sold.

    The days that followed were more of the same, as he did his little jobs to beg for scraps of all kinds, some of which were sturdy enough on which to be composed. And as long as he felt his poverty, his work sold.

    Thus, poverty left him. And his wife had a son. Though it took a little while, he forgot his poverty. And when he did, his poems no longer sold. It wasn't long before he remembered again. His poems sold again. He gained more wealth. And his wife had a daughter.  He forgot his poverty again. And his poems fell on deaf ears and lighter purses. Until he grew poor for a third time. 

    He wrote his poems then. This time he paid attention to his lot. He grew wise: readers do not like it when a writer forgets his poverty.

    Thus, he grew rich. Princely so. And feasted once daily on bread and an apple.

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