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guide him with your grace
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Posted on September 15, 2014 at 05:27:30 PM by Arthur



Parenting was never easy, and it was made more difficult when you were trying to raise a future king. Arthur’s son had never been what one might call a restful child. He had always had the habit of fraying his father’s nerves by getting into troubles and scrapes for as long as the king could remember. Guiding a wilful and intelligent teenager into the beginnings of adult life however had proven more difficult than Arthur had imagined. He, like generations of tired parents spent half his time worrying about what he knew was going through his son’s head and the other half wondering what on earth the boy was thinking about. Tristan had been different ever since he had been rescued from the pirate caves, and whilst the change had become less obviously pronounced there was still a subtle difference that Arthur couldn’t quite place. It troubled him. He wished the boy would just talk to him about whatever it was, but then he supposed, his son’s reluctance to open up was only what Arthur had indirectly taught him.

One problem that had recently presented itself was far easier to address. When he had been informed of it he had been surprised at first (surely he wasn’t old enough for all of that yet) but when Tristan had appeared in his study with his lengthening limbs and strengthening jaw he found that he wasn’t all that surprised after all. It was with some pride that he had realised that his son was handsome, and in the way you would expect from a king. He had his grandmother’s striking eyes, his father’s long regal nose and his mother’s gently twisting mouth. No...it really wasn’t surprising after all. What followed was a conversation which was remarkably uncomfortable for everyone involved. Arthur had covered all the main points as he was aware of them, coughing awkwardly every now and again as Tristan stared down at his feet with colour in his cheeks. Arthur had finished by suggesting that his son speak to his uncle if he wanted someone closer to his own age to talk to and found himself hoping that the boy would follow his advice. Thank God for younger brothers.

Arthur had spent the first few hours of the day interviewing valets. He was well-schooled in Tristan’s ingenuity but at least he could take steps to ensure that someone kept an eye on him. This was his first step; a valet would limit the need for the maids to visit his son’s rooms and provide an extra pair of unobtrusive eyes. The king knew the sort of man he was looking for, and he was yet to find him. He wanted someone older but not too old, someone with some experience of working in a household and preferably someone with a military background to double as a personal bodyguard. He also needed someone who Tristan was not going to run rings around. He dismissed the final candidate with a smile and a handshake and had the guards escort him out of the main hall and into the foyer beyond.

The king glanced at the large candle which sputtered away on the table in the corner of the room. It was a curious but useful little invention. The candle was so large because each section of wax was timed to burn in exactly an hour. Thus you could tell the time of day simply by looking at how far down the wax had melted. Arthur was pleased to see that he was running on time for his next appointment for once. He glanced out the window with a small smile half expected to see a pig fly past or a blue moon where the sun should have been.
“Show him in, please,” Arthur called to the young guard on the left of the door at the other end of the hall.
“Yes, Your Grace,” came the reply and he disappeared into the entrance hall beyond.

The castle’s main hall was large but longer than it was wide. The floor was of polished wooden floorboards and a rich red carpet ran in a strip down the centre finishing at the foot of the wooden dais on which Arthur’s throne was located. He would sometimes have the throne removed to the antechamber and replaced with the family dining table so that he might use it as a desk, but such action had so far proven unnecessary on that particular morning. A smaller throne stood empty on Arthur’s right, a few steps back from his own, and it was usually occupied by the crown prince. Arthur had elected to keep his son otherwise engaged on this occasion. A few groups of people buzzed around at the foot of the dais, some of them dressed in the dark clothes of scribes and lawyers, some of them soldiers dressed in the red and gold of the royal livery and others in the bright coloured silks of courtiers. They were chatting amongst themselves in a light and eager buzz, occasionally interspersed with the hurried scratching of an urgent quill. When the doors at the other end of the hall were pulled open to reveal a man and a racoon all faces turned towards him and the heraldic banners which lined the walls fluttered in the draft which flooded in from outside. Arthur dismissed all of his entourage save for one scribe who took to a desk in the corner of the room and popped the lid off his inkpot as he took up a fresh swan-feather pen.

“Welcome!” Arthur said with a warm smile, his keen grey eyes failing to warm to the same degree as the rest of his face; intelligent and as guarded as ever, “I trust you haven’t been waiting too long.” The king was wearing one his less ostentatious crowns, a think golden band which brushed against his temples with single small sapphires encrusted onto the metal and regular intervals. His tunic was dark blue, the seams lined with embroidered gold ribbon, and as he intended to hunt after his meetings were concluded the supple black leather of his riding boots extended up beyond his knee. Arthur fixed the man before him with a penetrating stare taking in every little detail of his face and general appearance.
“How can I help you, Rohmarr?”

photo by mistermauroat flickr.com






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