This story emerged on Sunday, fully formed and it was great fun to write. It was only once I’d finished that I realised how close it is to my heart and the things going on in my life. My son was born seven weeks ago and my daughter is three and a half and both are making me think about all sorts of things. 

I hope you enjoy it and I’d love to know your thoughts. The second half will be out on Thursday. 

 

In a kingdom, further away than tomorrow but nearer than the stars, a baby boy was born to the king and queen of the land. He was their first child and they were overjoyed.  The kingdom celebrated for six days and seven nights, for their new king to be was a bonny lad, with smiles from the moment his eyes opened and cheeks that simply begged to be squeezed.

On the seventh day, as the sun rose above the largely hung-over capital city of Darial, three women arrived at the doors to the castle. The doorman spoke with them briefly and then ushered them inside. So it was that when the king left his private chambers and headed into the courtroom to begin the day’s proceedings, the three ladies awaited him.

The king was a proud man, though not too proud. He was caring and kind and thought every day on how he could better the lot of his people. Today though, he hoped for a quiet one. Most of his subjects were sleeping off six days of free drink and food and he imagined he would spend much of the day snoozing in his chair or signing less important documentation.

His eyes widened fractionally at the sight of the women, but he took the time to settle himself in his chair and have a sip of tea before beckoning them forward.

‘Ladies, welcome to Darial. As you can see, the court is quiet today, so please, tell me what is on your mind.’

The ladies performed the standard obeisance, and if the eldest failed to bow quite deeply enough, the king overlooked it. She was aged beyond belief, lines as deep as a well criss-crossing her sharp, narrow face. That she had come to his kingdom at all spoke of endurance beyond that suggested by her frail frame. Indeed, before they began to speak, he felt moved to inquire, ‘From where have you come? It is early for you to have travelled far today.’

The middle of the three ladies stepped forward. ‘Your grace, we have travelled day and night since your son was born. It is a long way from our kingdom to yours.’

The king stood, hand clasped to his breast. ‘You are royalty? Forgive me, I would have shown quite different manners had I known you came from royal stock.’

The lady shook her head. ‘We have a kingdom, but are in no way royalty. Please, sit.’

The king found himself sitting before he had time to ponder on what sounded suspiciously like an order. The woman was easy to obey. She reminded the king of his wife, just a little. She had a warm, wide face and eyes that knew more than he did. Had he been pressed to guess an age, which of course he would never do, he’d have ventured somewhere in middle age, whilst hastily lowering the age at which middle age began.

He inclined his head. ‘Please, continue.’

The woman to his right stepped forward and curtsied. ‘We are here to bless the boy.’

The king had yet to examine the third lady and at this moment he regretted his tardiness. She was young, but not too young for him to be aware how attractive she was. She carried herself with a straight back and proud bearing, but his eyes fixed on her face. Her lips were full and held slightly apart, as though she were mid breath. Her eyes were dark and promising and her nose filled the space between in perfect symmetry. He had always fancied himself a brunette man, but the long blonde hair that hung to her waist only added to her beauty.

He took a few deep breaths and stilled the movement in both his heart and his trousers. ‘You wish to bless my child?’

‘We do, your grace.’

He blinked. They hadn’t the look of religious types, but his mother had warned him to never anger the church, or indeed anyone else claiming particular fealty to an omnipotent being. She called it playing safe and he wasn’t one to spurn such sensible council.

He snapped his fingers and demanded the servants bring his son to him. Minutes later, the wet nurse carried him through. He was fussing and wriggling, clearly and justly annoyed at being stopped mid-feed. But the moment the three ladies gathered around, he stilled and stared up at him with those piercing yet unknowing eyes of the newly born.

The king approached, but something kept him from pushing his way through to take his son. He had held him a number of times since his birth and revelled in the new, barely-there weight of this tiny part of himself. But in that moment he felt alone and isolated. The ladies had made of the throne room their own space and he wasn’t a part of it.

The ladies were speaking and he leaned closer to hear. The young one spoke first. ‘You, young Astil, shall be the most handsome man in all the land. But to become so, you shall have to give up that which is most precious to you.’

The middle lady leaned forward, stroking the king’s son’s forehead. ‘You, brave little boy, shall be the smartest man in all the land. But to become so, you shall give up that which you care about the most.’

The old lady, for the king could not think of her as anything else, took the boy’s hand and waggled it gently. Her voice was soft and not at all what the king had expected. ‘You, young laddie, shall be the most powerful man in the world. But to become so, you shall give up that which you love the most.’

The ladies stepped back and turned to the king. He wasn’t sure whether what he’d just heard was exactly a blessing, but he had been raised to put hospitality above all else. ‘Thank you, ladies, for your kind words. Can I offer you something to eat or drink? I’m sure the kitchen is still making breakfast.’

The middle lady, whom the king found reminded him more and more of his wife, smiled warmly and shook her head. ‘We appreciate both your offer and the welcome to your house. But we have a long journey ahead of us. Thank you, your grace.’

The three bowed their way out of the room and the king was left with the wet nurse and his new son. He exchanged a look with the nurse before both of them looked down at the tiny bundle of life in her arms. ‘I believe it might be best were we to not mention this to the queen. Would you agree?’

The wet nurse blanched. Her training had in no way equipped her to deal with what to do when the king asked your opinion. Particularly not on something as important as withholding information from the queen. So she nodded and curtsied just as deep as she could and fled. When the lad found her nipple again, he sucked with such force that she imagined her breast being torn from her body.

 

Five years passed, and on his fifth birthday, the young prince went hunting with his father. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence and they enjoyed themselves as they always did. Astil was a spirited and lively young man and found great joy in sitting astride his horse and trotting around after his father.

They had the hounds out that day and Astil’s birthday present came with them. One of a litter of puppies born a few months earlier, the hound was his best friend and shared everything with him. When his nanny wasn’t watching, it even shared his dinner.

The hunt was far from the castle and traversing the great west fields, when something spooked the horses and they all set off at a canter. The king thought immediately of his boy, hauling on the reins and bringing himself alongside his son. He calmed his horse until the two of them were trotting calmly along. The hounds though, were off, racing across the field in pursuit of a hare or rabbit. Little Boxer went with them.

Astil thought the whole thing fun and happily watched his playmate trying gamely to keep up with the others. He soon fell behind though and the riders caught him up. It was at the exact moment Astil called his name that the pup’s leg caught in a rabbit hole and snapped. The sound was audible even above the gentle rumble of the horse’s hooves and the boy screamed.

Soon the dog was surrounded by men, including the king and his tearful son. It was decided that the leg was ruined and beyond repair. The king stood to one side, speaking in hushed tones to the Master of Hounds.

‘My liege, I know how fond your son is, but his dog will never become anything. It is bound for a life lounging before the fire. Is that any kind of dog for a king to have?’

The king pressed his lips tightly together and didn’t answer. The part of him his mother would have recognised was telling him it didn’t matter a whit what sort of a dog a king had. It was telling him that Astil was in love with this dog and why shouldn’t he have one that sat beside the fire and didn’t hunt like the others?

But another part of him was thinking something quite different. It was back in the throne room on that quiet Sunday morning, listening to the ladies.

This was the first thing Astil would have to give up. He was already growing into a handsome young man, but as blessings have a habit of doing, they had taken quite a turn in the king’s mind. His fear was not whether Astil would turn out handsome, but how he would turn out were he not to sacrifice something important. Would there be a scar? Or perhaps disease. There were bouts of flu going around that left survivors hideously scarred.

He nodded and cleared his throat. ‘You’re right. A king’s hound should be strong and healthy. What is the kindest way to finish this?’

The Master of Hounds looked oddly at the king, for just a second, then spoke in a heavy voice. ‘The dog is in pain. It would be best to put it down straight away, my liege.’

The king nodded his assent then turned his son and led him away. As in all things, the boy accepted his father’s words and concealed his flinch well when the pup’s whines were cut abruptly off. After the king put his son to bed that night, the young lad lay awake in the darkness for a long time, staring up at the ceiling as warm tears ran down both sides of his face.

 

Another five years passed and even at the age of ten, Astil was stealing hearts. Every cleaning maid and cook in the castle was secretly a little in love with the boy. He made it easy, having inherited his father’s kind manner and his mother’s heart. He was beloved out in the kingdom also, and often journeyed with his father to the towns and villages dotted around the vast valley over which they ruled.

It was during one of these journeys that young Astil celebrated his tenth birthday. On that day, the king and his son paraded through the streets whilst girls threw rose petals in their path and men cheered and raised their glasses. The sun was out and Astil’s smile was wide and without restraint.

They trotted down the cobbled streets until they reached a quieter part of town. Here, fruit trees grew over the walls from within gardens and the king plucked apples for them both to eat. The retinue followed at a distance, knowing well the king’s desire to spend time alone with his son. Whether the fates enjoyed irony, or simply had dubious senses of humour, no one will know, but it so happened that the king was mid way through telling the tale of the three ladies to his son, when Astil’s horse slipped.

The stallion had been his birthday present the previous year and since then the two had been inseparable. The bond between horse and rider had impressed even the Master of Horse and not a day had gone by in the last year when Astil hadn’t ridden Shadow.

On the cobbles of Old Town, where the fruit tumbled to the stone and rotted, Shadow’s feet slipped out from under his and he fell. Astil threw himself clear and landed without a scratch. The same could not be said for the horse. The sound of cracking bones brought the retinue racing over to where Shadow lay, whickering and twitching. One of his legs was twisted at a horrible angle and even the king looked away at first glance.

He drew the Master of Horse to one side and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘Is there any way we can save him?’

The master at horse nodded intently. ‘Of course, my liege. We can strap the leg and get him back to the castle on the wagon. It will take longer than I would like to get back, but Shadow is a tough horse, he can make it.’ The man hesitated and shrugged, ‘I should also tell you that the horse is in a great deal of pain and will never walk again.’

The king nodded, but he was barely listening. Already the voices were back in his head. It hadn’t been coincidence that he was finally telling the boy the story that had begun his life. No coincidence at all. He bade the Master of Horse strap the leg but no more, then called Astil over.

Standing together in the shade of the apple trees, with mottled grey stones behind them, the king finished the story. Once the words were done, he directed his son’s gaze across to his wounded horse and waited. Astil was a smart boy. Not perhaps the smartest, but quick enough. What would happen if he didn’t sacrifice his horse? The king had flashes of brain damage or some terrible blight sending him back to earliest childhood.

His fears, though, were unfounded.

‘Do you not think, father, that it would be cruel to drag the horse all the way home, only to have him spend the rest of his life in a stable? I think maybe it would be kinder in the long run to have him put to sleep here and now. What do you think, father?’

The king wrapped his arms around his son and pulled him close, nodding into the soft brown hair on his head. The young lad stiffened, trying perhaps to retain his pride and keep the tears within. Either way, he pulled himself free of his father’s arms and crossed the street to speak with the Master of Horse. The old man glanced up at the king and received a quick nod.

If the king saw the odd look thrown his way by the Master, he showed no signs of doing so.

The horse’s frantic neighs slowed and fell silent as the mushed apples were wet with warm blood. The king mounted his horse as Astil was brought a new mount. They rode back through the city and both raised their hands and smiled at the cheering subjects, even as their hearts refused to smile with them.

 

To be continued…