The Summons

“She wants to see you.”

The messenger shifts his weight from left to right several times after he's delivered the summons. He's torn, and he's nervous. He has been told not to leave until I've given him the answer, but he's equally reluctant to try my patience. Were it within my abilities to do so, I would sympathise, but I have an arduous and unenviable task ahead of me. I can barely spare a thought for my own feelings, let alone those of this whelp of an errand-boy.

I leave him in suspense for a while, glaring at him in silence from beneath a lowered brow, watching him squirm and vacillate. I rise then, startling him into taking a few steps backward and raising his arms defensively. I am a good head taller than him, even when he's not cringing in fear, and I take the opportunity to work the cricks from my neck while he watches with bated breath, awaiting my judgment.

“Then I shall of course oblige,” I mutter, which is probably the most positive response he could have hoped for from me. He scuttles to one side to avoid my feet as I sweep from the room. It's a little dramatic, but it reminds the servants who is master here.

She has issued innumerable similar summons over the three months of her incarceration, and I have dutifully answered each one. I listen attentively, broker my own counter-proposal, and see to it that whatever compromise has been reached is honoured.

She has made few unreasonable demands, truth be told, though I am certain she knows she is in a position to do so. To date, her most awkward request entailed a daylight horse-ride around the Tower. We compromised on a moonlit canter, accompanied by a contingent of my most loyal guards. Most of the rest have involved the addition of certain items of furniture, ornaments or implements to her cell, each request with its own subtle reprimand.

“Corvháin, I want paper and pen and ink, so that I may write down my thoughts while I am imprisoned here.”

“Corvháin, this palette makes my bones ache. I want a feather mattress so that I may sleep more comfortably in my prison cell.”

“Corvháin, the view from my window is pretty, but it bores me. I want some books to divert my attention until I am free.”

The majority of her requests have been indulged, for it is in both our interests to keep her happy.

Tonight is different.

Tonight she knows of the mission that draws me from the Tower, where I must go, and what I must do when I arrive there. I suspect that her demands will involve restraint on my part, and maybe even an entreaty to stay my hand. I am already hardened against this. Critical as it is to keep her kindly disposed towards me, I would risk her enmity in order to achieve tonight's goal. Nothing will turn me from the path I have chosen.

I nod to the shaven-headed guard who waits outside the stout wooden door, and he obediently draws back two heavy bolts. Inside, she stands expectant, as she has each time she has called for me. It might seem strange to some: I am master here, and yet I scurry along instantly at her call, and fulfill her every wish. They do not know what is at stake, what I stand to lose without her cooperation, what I stand to gain if I can but gather together the different pieces of the puzzle in time.

Part of me does not want to have this conversation, not now; not here; not tonight, even though I have been anticipating it. She will ask something of me that I cannot possibly grant, and I doubt any compromise will satisfy her. Mercy, leniency, an alternative outcome. All these things she will ask of me, and all must be denied. I ready myself for the first and last flat refusal I will ever give her.

She stands resolute, her jaw set, her arms folded. The door closes quietly behind us to allow us privacy, and I incline my head in a show of polite deference.

I wish instantly for an end to this moment, for the discomfort to be over, the matter to be closed, and for my horse to be galloping east beneath me. But I know it's not to be. I must see it through.

She approaches boldly, as fearless of me as always: I have never given her reason to be afraid. She is small, my royal guest – her head barely comes up to the top of my chest – but she has presence. Looking at her, beyond the glittering green eyes and the silky sheets of hair, I perceive the strength of her character, the force of her will, and I wonder if she has any idea of the power she holds over me. These days, I barely notice her diminutive stature.

“You ride east tonight,” she says, and there is an accusation in her tone.

I nod. There is no need for either of us to say more, but I know she will. I clench my jaw, tighten my grip on my sword hilt, and make ready to deny her.

She speaks but two words, but they alone are almost enough to shatter my resolve. Three months; twelve weeks; ninety days and more I have known her, bargained with her, and compromised with her. Tonight, when my will must be at its strongest, all my well-laid plans, all my hopes and dreams are nearly undone by two small words:

“Be careful.”





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Pic and story are products of my holiday I'd almost forgotten I liked drawing and writing stuff....