The Handkerchief

First posted September 2021.

Author's Note

The Grimms' 'frog prince' story is fully titled, "The Frog King, or Iron Heinrich." Heinrich is a character easily dropped from adaptations, and in fact, even older variants of the 'frog prince' type of story have no similar character. "Who the hell is Heinrich?" is a very common reaction to hearing the title or reading the story for the first time.

So, who the hell is he?

In the Grimms' version of the story, he only shows up at the very end. A servant of the prince, he was so distraught at the prince's transformation into a frog that he bound his chest in iron bands to prevent his heart from breaking. As the prince and princess ride off to be married in the prince's home kingdom, Heinrich rides behind the carriage, and his heart is so full of joy at the prince's happy ending that the iron bands break.

The Grimms' notes mention a variant from Paderborn, in which the story begins with the prince and his lover. She receives an enchanted handkerchief that will alert her to changes in his fortune, and it eventually leads to her taking up the Heinrich position; she disguises herself as a man to be hired as a servant to the prince, and the sound of her breaking heart alerts the prince to her true identity.

It's this variant on which I've based my re-telling of the 'frog prince' story. I hope you enjoy it!

-

Henry sat on the edge of the fountain, trailing his fingers in the cold, clear water. The strong breeze pushed the grey clouds speedily across the sky, and droplets from the fountain’s bubbling top fell on his skin like the tiniest rain shower. He tried to focus on the water and the sky and the wind, desperate to distract his anxious thoughts from where they were inclined to be, but it was of no use.

Francis’s father, the king, had demanded a private audience with his son, and both Henry and the prince knew the only thing it could be about. He had often made known his displeasure with his son’s refusal to propose marriage to any of the parade of princesses the king had provided, but now, the reason for Francis’s reluctance had been discovered. They had been so careful not to be seen together, but Henry had always known, if he was honest with himself, that secrets like theirs could not be kept forever.

The wind whistled in his ears as it picked up speed, bending the young trees beneath its force. Francis approached, his eyes cast downward, and Henry’s heart leapt into his throat.

The prince sat beside him and took both of Henry’s hands in his. “Darling.”

Henry smiled a sad, bitter grimace. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

Frowning, Francis put his hands on either side of Henry’s face, fiercely holding his gaze. “Never,” he said, and kissed him. “Never,” he repeated between kisses, his lips hardly leaving Henry’s as he spoke.

In the prince’s arms, Henry almost forgot Francis bore bad news. He melted into Francis’s warm embrace, his soft, pleading kisses pushing all thought from Henry’s head as he clung to his love.

A thunderclap startled him and he pulled back. The chill re-settled immediately as he looked at Francis and remembered.

Francis swallowed hard before speaking again. “He’s banished me. I’m to leave immediately.”

“But surely that’s good news,” Henry said, frowning in confusion. “I can go with you. We can be together.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have so much as a penny now, Henry.”

“I don’t care about that. You think I only love you for your money?”

“Henry, listen,” Francis said, gently taking his hands and clasping them to his chest. “I’ll go and find a way to take care of you. I’ll get a job and find a house. And then I’ll send for you, when I know I can provide for you.”

“Don’t you dare.” Hot tears welled in Henry’s eyes, quickly spilling over. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone.”

Francis brushed the tears off Henry’s cheek with his thumb. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a handkerchief and handed it to him. Henry dabbed his eyes before looking at it; Francis’s name was embroidered in red thread on the corner in curly, intricate lettering.

“Keep it,” he said. “If anything happens to me, my name on it will turn black.”

“Anything? Like if you stub your toe or catch a cold?”

He laughed, briefly. “No. Only if I die or— or if I’m unfaithful, apparently. Old spell. But Henry, my love, my darling,” he punctuated his sentence with kisses, one on each cheek and then his forehead, “that, I can promise you, I never will be.”

“Oh, good,” said Henry. “Then I’ll just know you’re dead.”

Francis smiled sadly, his eyes hungrily raking over Henry’s face as if to commit every detail to memory. “I will see you again.”

Henry could think of no words he wished to say, and threw his arms around Francis, kissing him again. His tears stuck to Francis’s cheek, and he wished those tears could trap the prince there, pressed against him. But, his tears possessed no such magic, and before he knew it, Francis was gone.

—

Francis wandered through the forest without direction. There must be a road somewhere, he was sure — although he had no reason to be sure, as he had never left his own kingdom before, and could claim no familiarity with the woods now surrounding him. Even if he could find a road, where would it take him? Another kingdom where surely his father had already sent word not to harbour him.

Rain fell thick on the needled canopy above him. Drops fell through slowly, splashing on his face every now and again as he trudged onward. He jumped at the sound of a pine cone crunching beneath his foot. The growl of his stomach sounded like an angered animal, and his throat felt dry. Opening his mouth for falling rain was not nearly satisfying.

His thoughts turned to Henry as he dragged his feet through the dirt. It was for the best, he told himself over and over. Sent away from home with nothing but the clothes on his back, he had nothing to offer Henry but a struggle of a life with no relief of burden in sight. He could bear the suffering of poverty, but what he could not bear was the sight of Henry suffering. But then, Henry was suffering either way, wasn’t he? Perhaps it was selfish, after all, to make them suffer apart rather than together.

Ahead, in a clearing, Francis saw a well with a bucket perched on its rim. He stumbled as he clumsily ran toward it and fetched himself some water out of it. Never had water seemed more refreshing, clearer, or cooler in his life; more than simply quenching his thirst, he felt it had restored him in every manner, and he let his misgivings fall away as he prepared to continue his journey.

“Just like a prince to assume everything he sees is his for the taking.”

Francis turned around to see a man in dark robes standing across the clearing. Something about his face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it; shadows seemed to waver around his face, changing its angles with every shift of the light.

“I’m very sorry,” Francis said, hesitantly. “Does this belong to you?”

The man’s deep, booming laugh filled the clearing. “What, are you going to offer to pay me for the water you stole?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t any money.”

“Of course you haven’t. How convenient.” The man’s robes swirled around him as he moved swiftly across the clearing toward Francis. “Well, for the use of my well, there must be some recompense between us.”

Spheres of green and gold light rose from the palms of the man’s upturned hands. Francis saw them only for a moment before he felt himself falling. It seemed as if a thousand knives pierced his skin, and though his screams lacerated his throat, he could hear nothing but thunder. Lightning flashed in the sky; the brightness pained him, but his eyes seemed to be frozen open, and he could not close them. When the light faded, trees towered over him and falling rain hammered the ground around him. He lifted his hand — but it was not his hand. Before his eyes were small, green fingers connected by slimy webbing.

The man bent down, smiling with disdain. The features of his face remained obscured by fluctuating darkness. “Now, I believe it is customary to tell you how this spell can be broken, is it not?” He held up a hand, pursing his lips and turning his head away. “No, no. Don’t speak.”

Throwing his head back, he laughed with diabolical fervour. Francis could hardly force himself to breathe, frozen in terror as he looked up at the man. He lowered his face, and Francis could smell meat and wine on his breath as he whispered, “You must spend the night in the bed of a princess. Only then can you return to your true form.”

The man straightened up and placed his hands on his hips. “Isn’t that a kindness? Few spells can be broken through such pleasant means.”

With another booming laugh, the man disappeared.

—

The pain receded as the storm cleared. Francis remained on the ground of the clearing, watching the moon rise, then the sun. He realised no animals crossed the clearing — he heard no birdsong, no rustling in the bushes, no footfall between the trees. Everything that belonged in the forest knew to avoid this place.

His limbs felt stiff as he rose in the mid-morning sun. The ground was still damp from the storm, but through the trees he felt warm light on his clammy skin. His legs felt wrong; he tried to position them underneath him but they simply wouldn’t go where he wanted. He tried to take a step, but found himself launched forward with an unintended leap. The phantom limbs of his body ached, and he felt himself pressed against the boundaries of this smaller body, like wearing a pair of trousers several sizes too small.

He travelled onward; it was all he could think to do. No road presented itself, no plans formed in his head. He hopped through mud and grass, through puddles and stones, dodging hungry birds and snakes whose bright eyes flashed in the forest’s shadows. With every jump he felt a scream within him that he could not rest to release. He grew dizzy with the shrieks that bubbled inside him, the parasitic terror that gnawed at him from within.

It was hard to tell the difference, at first, between the puddles Francis had to traverse and a pond, but he realised as he splashed into the deep water that he would either have to swim across or hop around. He was weighing his options when he noticed a young woman sitting by the edge of the pond on the other side, weeping.

He swam over and hopped up onto the ground beside her. Approaching her, he opened his mouth, unsure what would come out. He was somewhat surprised to hear his own voice speaking the words, “Why are you crying?”

The woman gasped as she looked up. She turned her head from side to side, then, incredulously, down toward Francis. Tilting her head inquisitively, she said, “Was that you?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

She sniffled. “My favourite ball fell into the pond.”

Francis laughed, and the sound was more like a half-choked croak than his own laugh. “Is that all?”

The young woman frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t expect you would know anything about losing something that means a lot to you, frog.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Anyway, perhaps I do cry for other reasons, but the most immediate of them, and, as you asked if you could help, the only one that pertains to you, is the ball.” She opened the drawstring bag at her waist, and Francis heard coins clinking as she rummaged through it. “Can I pay you to get it? My father’s the king; I can give you anything.”

Francis’s eyes widened. “Princess. There is something you could give me in return for the ball.”

“Yes, what is it? Name your price.”

His throat went dry, and he felt as though he were full of rocks. His voice came out scratchy and broken. “I’m afraid I must ask you to allow me to spend a night in your bed.”

She glared at him. “Don’t be absurd. What do you want?”

“Please,” he said. He was familiar enough with magic to know he could not break the spell if he explained it to her, but he felt sick, knowing what she must think of his request. “Please, I cannot say more, but let me spend a night in your bed.”

Her hands fell to her lap with the bag in them and she looked aside, thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, she turned back to him, narrowing her eyes. “All you wish to do is lie in my bed?”

Francis thought back on the exact words of the magician. “Yes, that is all. I give you my word.”

The princess smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Is the word of a frog so weighty a thing?”

He could not think of what to say in response, and simply looked at her with pleading eyes.

Seemingly having a conversation with herself in her head, the princess tilted her head back and forth, nodding one moment, pursing her lips the next. When she finally turned back to him, it was with an odd smile hinting at both satisfaction and mischievous intent. “Alright, then. Bring me back my ball and I’ll bring you home with me.”

Without hesitation, Francis leapt into the water and swam to the bottom of the pond. The ball gleamed in the murky, mossy water, and he retrieved it with little difficulty. His heart was in his throat as he set the ball down, uncertain whether he believed the princess would honour her promise.

Thankfully, she was true to her word. She picked him and the ball up, and began walking away from the pond toward the edge of the forest. Here, the trees grew closer together, huddled for protection against the outside world. Leaves rustled in the crisp breeze, and the chirping of birds was eventually joined by the quiet chatter of people. The forest’s end came abruptly, at an unnaturally straight line that immediately gave way to the palace’s manicured gardens.

A few curious looks were all that was sent Francis’s way; most of the people milling about the gardens seemed either uninterested or unsurprised to see the princess marching toward the palace, head held high as she displayed the frog before her.

Inside, she walked directly to the dining hall, where all seats at the long table but one were filled. “Sorry I’m late, Father,” she said as she seated herself. She placed Francis delicately on the table next to her plate.

The king’s eyes widened. “Josephine, what—”

“He came to my rescue in the forest, and I promised he could come home with me in return,” the princess replied before her father could finish his question. She looked up with false sweetness. “Aren’t you always telling me to honour my promises?”

Sighing, the king wearily shook his head and returned his attention to his plate.

The feigned amiability turned to a genuine smile as Josephine looked down at Francis conspiratorially. “Here,” she said, pushing a bit of food to the side of the plate. “Share mine.”

Too hungry to refuse food, he eagerly ate what was offered. All the while, however, he could not help wondering what game the princess was playing, and whether she was trustworthy after all. She had kept her word, of course, but her reason for doing so did not seem to be as simple as merely fulfilling a promise out of kindness.

“Well,” Josephine said, rising from her seat and holding a hand out for Francis to jump into, “that was delicious. Now, we are off to bed.”

The king put his silverware down with a sharp clink. “You are taking that thing to your chamber?”

“He’s not a thing, Father. He’s—” She leaned down to whisper to the prince. “What was your name?”

“Francis.”

“He’s Francis. And yes, Father, that was the agreement. Unless you’d like me to throw out the enchanted talking frog and surely invite wrath and ruin down upon our house.”

Without waiting for a reply, Josephine exited the room, laughing all the way up the stairs.

“I don’t think I can do any of that, you know,” Francis said.

“Oh, I didn’t think so.” At the top of the tower, she opened the door to her chamber. A fire roared merrily in the brilliant white fireplace, and gold damask curtains were drawn around the four-poster bed. She placed Francis on the bed and seated herself at the vanity, taking pins out of her hair as she looked at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror. “I’ll admit, it wasn’t for selfless charity that I brought you here. I hope you don’t mind.”

The seed of worry in Francis’s mind took root. He swallowed audibly. “And what have you brought me here for?”

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled. “To annoy my father.”

In relief, he exhaled in a croaking chuckle. “I see. Well, it is a service I’m happy to provide. I think our fathers are much alike.”

“Insisting on a life they have imagined for you, regardless of who you are and what you want?”

“Mm,” he nodded in assent.

She sighed, letting the pins fall from her fingers and click against the table. “It’d serve him right if I did marry a frog. Not that I intend to,” she said, turning over her shoulder. “But he’d stop demanding my marriage, anyway.”

He watched her shake her hair out of its elegant braids and tie it up again, messily, in a knot on top of her head. “You aren’t like any other princesses I’ve met.”

“Have you met many?” she asked, half-laughing.

“A fair few. I dare say more of your kind would’ve made the experience less unbearable.”

“I suppose ‘less unbearable’ isn’t the most unflattering appraisal I’ve ever heard of myself,” she said with a shrug as she rose from the vanity.

Had he been able to smile, he would have; the attempt to do so felt alien on his face. “Apologies, Princess. It’s just that you simply aren’t my type.”

“Well, I’m afraid the feeling is mutual,” she said, pulling down the silk covers and crawling beneath them. “Will you be alright on that pillow there?”

Francis climbed up on the pillow beside her and settled himself. “I could not ask for more. Thank you, Princess.”

She was quiet for long enough that he thought she had fallen asleep, when she said, very quietly, “I hope you get what you’re looking for.”

“I hope you do, too.”

—

He felt heavy when he awoke. Looking down, he saw human legs — mercifully, clothed as they had been when he was transformed — stretched out to the end of the bed above the covers.

He leapt out of bed and looked at himself in the vanity’s mirror, poking and prodding at his face as if it were an illusion that he might dispel with attention. Behind him, he saw Josephine sit up, pulling the covers up toward her chin and recoiling.

“Princess, it’s me! It’s Francis. We did it!”

She lowered the covers only an inch, but she smiled in mild relief. “That’s wonderful.”

He grinned. “Don’t tell me you liked me better as a frog.”

“I’m afraid that is my preferred state for men.”

They walked downstairs together to find the king waiting at the bottom. He squinted at them curiously before realisation dawned on him. A wave of relief swept over his face as he held his arms out in welcome. “My dear, what a happy surprise! I assume, now that the spell is broken, you intend to be married?”

Francis and Josephine looked at each other, sharing mirrored expressions of panic. To refuse after being known to have spent the night together was unthinkable. She bit her lip and raised her eyebrows in a conciliatory gesture. His thoughts turned to Henry, and an ache rose in his stomach. He could not now go back, nor count on securing a position that could provide a better living than this one. Perhaps he could send money to Henry, if nothing else. Perhaps Henry had already fallen in love with someone more suitable. Closing his eyes, Francis gave Josephine a perfunctory nod.

She grimaced, almost as if apologising before the deed was done. Turning to her father with a false smile, she said, sweetly, “Why, of course.”

—

Henry rolled over in bed and glanced at the handkerchief on the bedside table. At the sight of it, he jolted up. The flash of colour he had seen filled his mouth with the taste of smoke. He went to the window and held the handkerchief up to the light, desperately hoping the dim morning light had tricked his eyes. Unmistakably, the thread in which Francis’s name was written had turned black.

He didn’t know what to do with this. Knowing that something horrible had happened, but without any direction or explanation, was practically useless. Worse than useless, in that all he could do was stand at the window, feeling sick.

The morning bells rang, and a crier stood in the square. Henry opened the window and listened. The neighbouring kingdom’s princess, famed for rejecting all suitors, was apparently getting married.

It couldn’t be.

Henry looked at the handkerchief in his hand. He felt numb.

“Henry,” said his sister Clara, opening the door to his room. “Oh good, you’re up. Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” Henry heard himself say, as though the voice belonged to someone else. He looked up at her. “Pack your things.”

—

It was a cause for some alarm, Henry thought, that it was so simple to be hired in the service of the royal family. Clara disguised as a man and he with a mask over his face, claiming to hide extensive burns, were easily able to begin work as valets to the prince, who had arrived in the kingdom with no retinue of his own. They might have been anyone.

Henry couldn’t tell if it was wishful thinking, or if Francis looked melancholy as he walked arm-in-arm with his prospective bride. It made him feel sick to hope for his beloved’s unhappiness, but at least, if he was unfaithful in technicality, he might not be unfaithful in heart. It was a horrible, selfish thing to hope for. And yet.

Clara asked him, at night in the servants’ quarters, what he was trying to accomplish. “Nothing’s changed at home, and clearly there isn’t a place for you two to be together here.”

Henry didn’t respond. He didn’t know what he hoped to do, precisely. As the day of the wedding drew nearer, the feeling of illness so overwhelmed him he was constantly dizzy, fighting to remain standing in the prince’s presence.

“Are you quite alright?” Francis asked, noticing Henry’s wavering hand as he poured a glass of wine.

“I am as well as you are, my lord,” he said.

Francis sighed, but said no more.

The day of the wedding arrived, and Clara left Henry to dress the prince. His fingers lingered on the small, delicate buttons, and he swallowed hard as he brushed the soft skin of Francis’s wrist.

The prince looked blankly into the mirror, his eyes not connecting with his reflection.

“Your Highness?”

Francis shook his head, snapping to attention. “Yes, everything looks perfect. Thank you.”

Henry felt short of breath, aching as if iron bands bound his chest. “May I ask you a question?”

The prince turned. His lips parted in surprise — or was it hopefulness? Perhaps only on Henry’s part — as his eyes locked with Henry’s through his mask. “Yes?”

“Do you love her?”

His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. He cast his gaze downward. “Royal marriages are not often about love.”

“With respect, sir, that is not an answer to my question.”

There was a knock at the door before the prince could respond. Clara poked her head through the door. “The carriage is ready,” she said, almost apologetically.

“Let us be off,” the prince said. He turned without looking at Henry. He did not look at him as they made their way downstairs, or once he had seated himself in the carriage.

Henry and Clara mounted horses to ride behind the carriage. Clara shot him a sympathetic look, and Henry walked his horse several paces ahead of hers in the procession. His despair tasted sour enough in his mouth without having to deal with her pity, too.

The slow roll toward the church began. In the mild heat, sweat poured off Henry’s forehead. He dabbed at it with the handkerchief, and the name in black thread fluttered in the corners of his vision. There were at once no thoughts and too many thoughts swirling around his head. He could not pluck out one coherent sentence, but he felt the weight of every feeling within the maelstrom of his mind. His bones ached, and his chest felt tight.

A cracking noise split the air. Henry gasped, clutching at his chest. The pain radiated from his centre, and he fell forward, grasping at his horse’s neck.

“Stop, stop!” he heard Francis’s voice cry out. “The carriage is breaking.”

Henry looked up to see the prince stepping out of the carriage to inspect it. When he caught sight of Henry, wheezing and bent over his horse, Francis ran over.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Before Henry could answer, Francis’s eyes dropped to the handkerchief in his hand. He took it, and his fingers traced his own name in black thread.

“It was not the carriage,” Henry half-whispered. He winced through the pain, breathing heavily. “That was the sound of my heart breaking.”

Francis touched his hand, his shoulder, the cheek of his mask, each fleetingly and unsure. He reached up to untie the mask from behind Henry’s head. His lower lip quivered when he saw his face.

“Henry.”

“The handkerchief.” Henry’s voice was hoarse and laboured. “I had to see—”

“Henry, darling.” Francis held his arms out to him, tears streaming down his cheeks and sparkling in the sunlight. “I was not, I never was—”

Groaning with effort, Henry slid himself down off the horse and into Francis’s embrace. Salt of sweat and tears mixed between them, heat flushing Henry’s cheeks. His knees buckled, but Francis caught him, and they laughed together.

“I’m sorry,” Francis whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” Henry replied. “Make it better.”

The princess stuck her head out the window of the carriage. “Is everything alr— oh,” she said.

Henry bit his lip as he looked at her, still entangled in Francis’s arms. He had intended to apologise, though past that he wasn’t sure what he could possibly say, but before he could speak, he noticed the princess’s gaze was not upon him.

Clara’s hair had fallen out of her hat, and the long braid with loose strands gently blowing in the breeze gave her away in a moment. The princess looked not angry, but entranced; the sparkle in her eyes was not unlike the look Francis had just shared with Henry.

Clara blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We can explain, Your Highness.”

“Don’t bother,” the princess smiled. “Why don’t you sit with me in the carriage and let the prince ride alongside his valet on the way back to the palace? I imagine they have as much to discuss as we do.”

“We do, Your Highness?”

“Please,” the princess said, smiling that odd smile Francis recognised from the last time he’d seen her hatch a plan. “Call me Josephine.”

The prince took Clara’s horse and rode next to Henry as the retinue turned around. He smiled somewhat sheepishly. “I promised I would find a way to take care of you.”

“And I told you, this isn’t something you can do alone. We’ll find a way to make it by together.”

“And my father?”

Henry shrugged. “You’re still banished. That just means every kingdom in the world is open to you except that one.”

“And maybe this one, once we explain to Josephine’s father.”

Laughing, Henry closed the gap between them enough to take Francis’s hand. “Okay. Two down. Where shall we go next, then?”

“As long as we go together? Anywhere.”