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chased your ghost across the yard
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Posted on April 30, 2013 at 10:02:23 PM by a r t h u r



“You didn’t!?” Tristan laughed, grinning broadly at his Father. The King smiled back, a little more sedately, and nodded his head,
“I did,” he confessed, shrugging his shoulders, “I really did.” Tristan’s laughed again, clapping his hands a couple of times,
“That’s brilliant! What did people say?” Arthur reached for his goblet of wine, that stood on the bedside table next to Tristan’s water jug and took a sip.
“Well,” the King continued, setting the goblet back in place, “you can imagine, the court was talking about it for weeks...” Knock, knock. Breaking off, both heads turned towards the door, and Arthur called for whoever it was to enter the room. A guard shuffled in looking a little anxious.
“Your Grace,” the soldiers said, nodding to Arthur, “Your Highness” he addressed Tristan briefly, before looking back to the King, “there’s urm...a man downstairs asking to see you.” Frowning slightly Arthur considered the guard’s news,
“what kind of a man?” he asked at last, sensing that there must be something unusual about the visitor to make the guard so obviously uncomfortable.
“I wouldn’t like to say, Your Grace,” the man continued, running a hand anxiously through his hair, “but, I think...I think he might be from Earth.”

The flight of steps that lead from the family wing of the castle down into the antechamber of the Great Hall was for private use only, and Arthur took the steps two at a time. Upon reaching the bottom he came to a halt and peered at his reflection in the gilded mirror that hung upon the western wall. He was not a vain man by nature, but he knew all too acutely the power of image and first impressions. Any stranger, especially one on official business of some kind, was to be treated as one would treat a knew jousting opponent. Arthur had exchanged his more relaxed clothing for more formal attire. His shirt was woven from a fabric of deep blue, the hems embellished with ornate embroidery in gold and silver thread. The silver buckle of his belt was recently polished, so too were the fastenings on his black leather riding boots, which extended past the knee. Encircling his head were a single band of engraved gold, set with sapphires, pressing down the light-brown waves of his hair. The King turned his head at the sound of claws clicking against stone, and saw Celdion and Tristan emerge from the entrance way. The Prince too was dressed in his finest, in a deep forest green. His plain cloth sling exchanged for a black silken one that cradled his bandaged arm against his chest. He wore a silver cuff around his uninjured wrist, the surface of which was also engraved. His crown was thinner than his father’s, the blue gems exchanged for emeralds. “Are you sure you’re well enough for this?” the King enquired gently, noticing how his son was leaning upon his familiar for support. Tristan nodded, “sitting down in the hall is very much the same as sitting down upstairs in bed, Father,” he smiled, “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

The hall was still empty as the King and his son entered it, as the last of the guards hurried away out of the side doors. Arthur had had them set out three fine goblets, and an ornate jug of rich red wine upon the table. The King seated himself in his own high-backed chair, and Tristan sat on his right hand side in a second seat of a similar size, but again, slightly smaller in size. Celidon trotted around to the other side of the table, and seated himself by the table leg nearest his fairy’s feet, guarding him from the unknown visitor who had caused such a stir.
“Show him in,” Arthur instructed the two guards who remained, and they vanished from the hall to obey the instruction. “This is a formal audience,” he told Tristan in a low voice, “do you remember what that means?” Again Tristan nodded. He had been taught the protocols for as long as he could remember, even if the chance to put them into practice had not occurred very often.

The doors swung open, and the little party spilled in to the hall followed by the two guards who pulled the two great oak doors shut at their backs. Arthur sat back in his chair looking completely at ease, his arms resting easily on the arms of his chair. He kept silent as the sound of footsteps echoed off the walls, his grey eyes, unreadable as ever, fixed upon the older gentlemen who walked at the head of the little retinue. There was pride there, the King could see, and something harder still that told him that he was not in for an easy meeting.
“Welcome to Shaman,” Arthur greeted them as they finally came a stop before the raised wood dias upon which the King and Prince were seated. “No,” he agreed, with a diplomatic smile that did not extend to his eyes, “I am afraid I have not had the pleasure of your correspondence. Fortunately, your journey has not been wasted.” He paused again. “May I introduce my son, Prince Tristan,” Arthur gestured in the boy’s direction, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, and was pleased to see that Tristan’s smile and nod of acknowledgement were all that they should have been. He had been paying attention after all, the King noted with pride. Religious leaders, Arthur knew from experience, were incredibly difficult to deal with, most especially when they wanted something.
“Come, friend,” he continued, gesturing at one of the seats that stood opposite his own, “take a seat and tell us of this urgent business that has brought you across worlds.”


photography and editing by merlin






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