Where Is the Prince?

The council chamber waited. The prince was late.

Messengers were dispatched to the palace, only to return moments later with puzzled expressions. He had not spent the morning receiving ambassadors. He was not inspecting the city’s defences or reviewing the treasury.

“I suppose every prince wishes to be remembered.” — “No. He wishes to remember us.”

Someone finally suggested looking elsewhere. “Try the almshouse.” The messenger sighed, as though he had heard the answer many times before. He had.

It was there, among the city’s poorest residents, that Prince Roman Vladimirovich of Uglich was eventually found. Not seated upon a throne. Not surrounded by guards. He was carrying a bowl of soup to an elderly man too weak to lift himself from his bed.

No announcement marked his arrival. No herald proclaimed his generosity. Several of those receiving care seemed scarcely surprised to see him. “He comes often,” one attendant explained. “Sometimes before sunrise.”

The prince has become something of a mystery to his own court. Since the death of his wife years ago, those close to him say his priorities have changed dramatically. The lavish entertainments once expected of a ruler have quietly disappeared. Expenditures that might have furnished new halls or fortified noble estates now seem increasingly directed toward churches, hospitals, shelters for the poor, and the relief of widows and orphans.

Not everyone understands the transformation. A merchant outside the marketplace shrugged when asked about it. “I suppose every prince wishes to be remembered.” An elderly woman standing nearby shook her head. “No.” She smiled. “He wishes to remember us.”

Throughout the afternoon, this correspondent followed the prince as he moved through the city with remarkably little ceremony. At a construction site, he spoke with stonemasons raising the walls of a new church. Rather than inspecting their progress from horseback, he climbed the unfinished steps to examine the work alongside them, asking whether they had enough timber to finish before winter.

From there he walked to the city’s infirmary. Several patients attempted to rise as he entered. He gently motioned for them to remain where they were. One young mother introduced him to her son, who had been recovering from a fever. The prince knelt beside the child’s bed. No speeches were given. No officials recorded the moment. He simply listened while the boy proudly described plans to return home before the spring planting.

Later, while leaving the infirmary, Roman paused to greet several beggars gathered outside the entrance. Instead of tossing coins hurriedly into waiting hands, he spoke with each person by name. “You noticed that too?” asked one of the nurses. She had been watching from the doorway. “He remembers everyone.”

As evening approached, the bells of Uglich echoed across the river, calling the faithful to prayer. The prince quietly joined the growing crowd entering the church, taking his place among merchants, craftsmen, labourers, and widows. For a few moments, there was nothing to distinguish him except the deference others showed him. After the service, he slipped away before most people had reached the church doors.

Tomorrow’s council meeting will no doubt begin again. Someone will ask where the prince has gone. Those who know him best already have their answer. He is probably wherever someone has been forgotten.