Author note: This is my entry for the Pandemonium 2024 Author Challenge.
King Wulfric of Airmete, Chosen by the Gods, Divine Ruler of the Kingdom and Defender of the Borders, lost the fight to keep his eyes open, disguising this as deep thought as the two farmers bickered in front of him.
"The ewe was clearly marked with the ash cross, and the ash was clearly burnt yew," one argued, his long, reddish beard wagging as he spoke.
"Of course there was a cross mark, because you put it on the ewe after taking her and washing away my own mark," the other replied, banging the table with his fist, spittle flying. "My lord, you cannot forgive this blatant theft."
"Blatant theft? Sir, you are the one attempting to steal a ewe which does not belong to you."
Unwisely, Wulfric had been up late the previous evening. An ambassador from Swarleden, the loose connection of minor kingdoms to the north, had visited for the night, and Wulfric had been keen to hear the political gossip. This had, naturally, needed copious ale consumption to go along with it, for fear that the ambassador would find the hospitality of Airemete lacking. Now he was doubly paying for the excesses of the evening: firstly, he was hungover and tired, which was becoming more difficult to shake off as his hair and beard greyed. Secondly, his wife, Queen Levina, had not forgiven him for crawling into their bed in the early hours and waking her, stinking of ale. The key to running a happy kingdom, he had observed, was keeping Levina happy. Judging livestock disputes didn't come into it.
"Bartholomew," Wulfric said, wearily, interrupting one of the farmers mid-flow. Both of them fell silent out of respect for their king.
"Yes, my lord?" Bartholomew said, bowing slightly as he stepped up to Wulfric from one side. Batholomew was his trusted advisor: old, bald, wrinkly, with the appetite of a bird, the hunched man was hardly a shining example of manhood who could successfully lead a kingdom. But without the clever thoughts that seemed to arise from nowhere into his head, like an inexhaustible well, Wulfric would have been hopelessly lost many times.
"Who first raised that they had lost a sheep?"
Bartholomew consulted a document. "Edwin, my lord, did so on Tuesday."
"When did... whatever his name is, the other one, raise that his sheep was lost?"
"Harold did so on Thursday."
"Award the ewe to Edwin. But fine both of them a shilling. This could have been sorted out without recourse to my judgement."
"As you wish, my lord. A wise judgement indeed."
When the farmers had been relieved of their money and sent packing, Wulfric slumped back in the chair. Sitting here, at the head of the hall, reminded him of mealtimes, and he was hungry.
"Those were the last two, Bartholomew?" he asked, tugging at his beard absent-mindedly and thinking about partridge stew.
"Indeed, my lord, but there is one other petitioner."
"Oh for goodness' sake. Haven't I heard enough today? No, tell them I will see nobody more today. They must wait a week."
Bartholomew nodded, but didn't give in. "I believe you may wish to speak to this particular petitioner rather sooner, my lord."
Wulfric raised his hand to dismiss Bartholomew, and to scold him for his impertinence at the same time, but, he reflected, the old adviser was rarely wrong.
"Okay, send them in." He sighed and sat up in the chair, smoothing his wolfskin coat, ready to play his role as intimidating and iron-fisted king.
"Daddy," came the voice of his daughter, Evelyn, who rushed into the hall as soon as she was admitted. Other petitioners had to stay below the dais, but she didn't hesitate to patter up the steps and pull him into a hug.
"Evelyn, dear, you should have said it was you," Wulfric said, fondly, heaving himself up out of the chair. "Let's go to the kitchens, I'm absolutely starving and I can't wait until dinner."
"No, daddy, wait," Evelyn said, tugging at his hand. When Wulfric looked at her, he noticed her eyes were moist and shining, on the brink of tears, and her body beneath her woollen gown was trembling slightly.
"My dear, what's the matter?" he asked, pausing mid-stride to look at her. "Is it your mother?"
When Evelyn shook her head a single tress of blond hair fell from her plaits down the side of her long, angular face. "No, daddy... Daddy, you must listen to me."
"I am listening, my love."
She squeezed his hand. "Now I am eighteen and I have come of age, you must grant me this one request, and I promise it will be the only request I will make of you until the end of days."
"Evelyn," Wulfric said, looking her in the eye. "What's all this nonsense? You have royal blood; of course you can make as many requests as you like."
"No, daddy, you don't understand. I..." she paused, sniffed theatrically, then buried her face in her hands. "I wish to be married."
Wulfric laughed, a deep, booming sound which filled the hall, now empty of everyone except him, his daughter and his adviser, from whom nothing was hidden, save the secrets of the royal bedchamber. "To Prince Walter? Of course you will be married; and if you are so eager I can summon a messenger to go to King Rudolf of Tranting and expedite the happy day. I didn't realise it was a matter of such urgency." He chuckled again, musing on the way that young people were so impatient, before a thunderbolt of a thought struck him. "Hold on, you aren't... with child? Did Prince Walter-"
"No, daddy, that's not it," Evelyn reassured him. "Prince Walter has been truly princely to me, chivalrous to the last. But... it is not the prince whom I wish to marry."
This gave Wulfric pause. "You wish to break the engagement?" he whispered, gripping her slender wrist, feeling the bones hard beneath his fingers. "Tranting are our allies, they will not take this well."
"It cannot be helped, daddy. I am in love."
Wulfric pursed his lips. "Well, we may be able to work something out. King Rudolf and I are old friends, and he knew your grandfather well too. He'll understand. But which prince is it that you wish to be betrothed to?"
