A Tale of Two Kingdoms

©2007 Ian Hobson

Part One - A Question of History

I was there on the day when this story began, and on the day that it finished too; that's if a story ever truly finishes. Though my part in the story was only a small one. I was just a pawn, you see; a nobody, subject to the whim of my betters, and of fate. But anyway, here is the story:

***

Once upon a time there were two kingdoms, and each had two castles. And each pair of castles faced the other across a very long and very wide valley, the borders of the kingdoms meeting somewhere in the centre, and there was peace and harmony between the two. At least, that's the way it was until the young queen of the White Kingdom began to covet the lands of the Black Kingdom.

Her name was Queen Beatrice, and as she stood beside her husband, King Ivor the White, on the battlements that joined their two castles, she remarked upon the way the shadow of the castles, and the hillside on which they stood, stretched far across their lands, while the Black Kingdom remained bathed in sunlight.

'But it is only so in the winter months, my queen,' the king answered. 'Come spring, the sun will be higher in the sky.'

'That is so, my king,' the queen responded. 'But to the east the land is mountainous, and to the west there is the sea, and to both the north and the south the lands are barren and unsuitable for the growing of crops and the rearing of animals.'

'Which is why my ancestors built here on the slopes of this beautiful and bounteous valley,' the king replied. He placed the queen's hand on his and led her down from the battlements. 'Shall we dine in Eastcastle or Westcastle this evening?' he asked, trying to change the subject.

But the queen was persistent. 'But why did your ancestors not build on the south-facing slopes where the sun would shine on them at any time of year, and where crops can be planted earlier in the year, and where the fodder for the cattle grows more readily, and where the royal gardens would benefit from much more sunshine?'

'I really can't say for sure,' said the king, beginning to get a little irritated. 'Though I believe in the early days of our kingdom - many centuries past - there was a war or a battle of some kind and, to save further bloodshed, the two sides agreed to share the valley and each build their castles on opposite slopes.'

'Well if that is the case,' said the queen as they reached the courtyard, 'then I think the White Kingdom got the worst of the transaction, and by now it is surely our turn to live across the other side of the valley.'

The king was a little taken aback by this last remark; he was older and wiser than his beautiful young queen, and though he loved her dearly, he thought her just a little headstrong and foolish at times. But, deciding to humour her, he raised a hand and beckoned the nearest servant, saying, 'Run and fetch Bishop Whiteleaf from his chapel in Eastcastle.' (That servant was me, by the way. I was just fourteen, and as I said: just a pawn in this tale of woe.)

'Is there something amiss, your highness?' Bishop Whiteleaf asked, as he hurried diagonally across the courtyard.

'No, no,' the king replied, 'just a question of history.'

'History!' exclaimed Bishop Whiteleaf with great enthusiasm. He was well versed in the history of the White Kingdom, and knew well the story of King Paleforth II who quarrelled with his queen so often that he ordered the building of a second castle – a mirror image of his own – and insisted that she live there, only visiting her once a year, on her birthday. The oddest thing about the story was that the queen of the Black Kingdom, across the valley, wishing not to be outdone by the neighbouring kingdom, persuaded her king that she also must have a castle of her own.

'Can I be of assistance, your highness?' asked Bishop Drax. He had heard from a faithful servant that Bishop Whiteleaf had been summoned to the courtyard by the king, and had quickly made his way there from the west chapel, not wishing to be left out of whatever was occurring.

‘We have a question.' It was the queen who answered. She liked Bishop Drax and thought him more forthright than Bishop Whiteleaf.

'A historical question!' said Bishop Whiteleaf.

'I see,' said Bishop Drax, wondering what the question might be and whether he might profit from it in some way. 'And the question is?'

The king ran his fingers over the tip of his white beard. 'I seem to recall something,' he said, 'about a battle between the two kingdoms, a long long time ago, of course, and I was wondering if there might be anything in the archives about it, particularly anything that might explain why my kingdom is on this side of the valley, and not the other?'

'There was indeed a battle!' replied Bishop Whiteleaf. 'The Battle of the Princes. It ended in a stalemate I believe, after much blood-letting, and then there was a treaty of some sort and, happily, we have lived in peace with our neighbours ever since.'

'But his highness wishes to know why the White Kingdom is on this side of the valley,' Bishop Drax interjected.

Bishop Whiteleaf look perplexed. 'I don't no,' he said. 'By agreement I suppose.'

'But what agreement?' Queen Beatrice asked. 'Can you not look through the archives and find out? Perhaps Bishop Drax would be willing to help.'

'I would indeed be willing, your highness,' said Bishop Drax. 'Come, Bishop Whiteleaf, if we have his highness's permission to withdraw, we will go at once to the royal library and see what we can find.'

And so off the two bishops went, to delve deep into ancient and dust-covered manuscripts, and though it took them three days and three nights, they found the original treaty, signed by the Black Prince and the White prince, two brothers who had discovered a beautiful, yet uninhabited, valley and come to live there with their subjects, but subsequently quarrelled and fought over who should rule it.

After carefully studying the treaty document, the two bishops sought an audience with the king and queen. 'This document makes it very clear,' said Bishop Whiteleaf, carefully unrolling the ancient scroll on the royal dinning table in Westcastle. 'The disputed lands were divided equally down the middle, and it was agreed that each prince would be proclaimed king of one half.'

'But that is not all,' said Bishop Drax triumphantly. He pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of the document. 'There is a codicil to the treaty that clearly states that as the northern side of the valley benefits from more sunlight, the kingdoms would exchange lands and castles every one hundred years.'

'Then we have been cheated!' the Queen exclaimed.

The king raised his eyebrows at the queen's use of the royal 'we', but addressed Bishop Whiteleaf. 'How old is this document?' he asked.

'It is hard to say exactly,' Bishop Whiteleaf answered, 'as a different calendar was used in the days when the treaty was signed.'

'But we have calculated,' continued Bishop Drax, 'that approximately one thousand years has passed since then.'

'One thousand years?' said King Ivor. 'That is a very long time.'

'A long time, indeed,' said Bishop Whiteleaf, 'and I fear a precedent may have been set.'

'A precedent?' exclaimed Queen Beatrice. 'Do you mean we cannot claim our right to live on the sunny side of the valley?'

'I would not say that, your highness,' Bishop Drax replied. 'We in the White Kingdom are clearly the aggrieved party here, and the remedy is quite simple: we must exchange castles and lands with the Black Kingdom for the next one thousand years.'

Now, as you might have expected, the king, being rather old and set in his ways, was not too keen on moving house, as it were. It would mean so much work: uprooting everyone that lived in the castles; the king, the queen, the three princesses, the knights and ladies and other courtiers, the castle guard, the cooks, the servants, the gardeners, not to mention the common folk that lived in the valley, as well as all the animals. And before any of that could even be contemplated, agreement would have to be reached with King Ebon the Black, of the Black Kingdom. So King Ivor said that he would have to give the matter much thought before any decision could be reached.

So, for a time, life went on as normal: we servants ran hither and thither, waiting on the king and queen, and other royals, hand and foot; the common folk ploughed the fields and fished the rivers and the sea, and the two sets of castle guards - or rooks, as they are often called - practised their swordsmanship, while the knights in armour impressed the ladies by knocking each other off their horses with their lances. But all the while Queen Beatrice, aided by Bishop Drax, worked on the king until at last he was persuaded to send an emissary the Black Kingdom to demand his right to exchange castles and lands with them for the next one thousand years.

Part Two - A Bad Omen

It's called Diplomacy, apparently. One side makes a proposal - the first move, if you like – then the other side counters it with a proposal of their own - not always a polite one – and so it goes on until agreement is reached, or until someone looses their temper. And King Ebon the Black had one hell of a temper, I can tell you (no, I really can, because I was one of the servants sent with the emissary).

Bishop Drax, of course, volunteered to be that emissary. He was an ambitious man and thought that if he could broker this deal between the two kings, he would be promoted to archbishop and perhaps have himself a cathedral built. But ambition can be a dangerous trait, as he would soon discover.

Two foot soldiers went ahead of Bishop Drax, who rode on a white donkey, while the rest of us, three servants and two more foot soldiers, plodded along behind with two rather stubborn mules that carried our provisions. One reason the valley was so fertile was that two rivers ran through it, and they were both in spate so we had to zigzag between the two best crossing places which meant that, despite an early start, we were only about half way across the Blacklands by nightfall, and had to camp there until the morning when we found we were surrounded by foot soldiers, dressed all in black.

We were most alarmed to learn that, during the night, two of our foot soldiers had been killed. But, Bishop Drax, who seemed less concerned, assured the men in black of our peaceful intentions, and we were allowed to continue on to the Black Kingdom's two castles, whose architecture was amazingly similar to our two, I noticed, and where the people stared at us as we were led through the gateway beneath the battlement; which was not surprising, I suppose, as many were obviously not accustomed to seeing people dressed all in white, just as we were not accustomed to their black attire.

We were kept waiting in the courtyard for most of the day, while more black-robed soldiers and citizens came to stare at us, including a young knight on a black charger who seemed to have trouble controlling his horse - for every one or two steps forward the beast would take one or two steps to the left or right - but the knight was a handsome young man, and I learned later that his name was Lord Blackavar.

Eventually Bishop Drax, as the White Kingdom's ambassador, was summoned, and because I was the bearer of a gift from King Ivor, I was allowed to go too. We were led, by a smiling black-clad bishop, to the east castle and then up a wide stairway and into a large hall, where King Ebon and his queen were seated on huge, ornate-looking thrones, at either side of which were two lesser thrones, one of them occupied by another bishop who was not smiling. Flanking the thrones were two knights, an old one and the young one from the courtyard, both standing with legs apart and arms folded, and beside them, at each end of this impressive line-up, stood grim looking soldiers, who I correctly assumed were two captains of the castle guard. I was so scared, my knees were all but knocking, because this was obviously going to be a very formal meeting.

'Welcome,' said King Ebon, as he eyed us critically. 'And to what do we owe this great honour?' Due to our common ancestry, the two kingdoms speak the same language, but King Ebon, as well as others I had heard, spoke with a strong accent, so the word 'welcome' sounded more like 'woolcrum' and 'great honour' sounded like 'greet horner'.

'His highness, King Ivor, sends you greetings,' Bishop Drax replied, as he bowed low. 'And he also sends you a small token.' Here Bishop Drax waved me forward and I felt very self-conscious as I carried the wooden case containing the gift from King Ivor to King Ebon and, bowing low, laid it at his feet. As I stepped back, the smiling bishop, now seated beside the king, gave me a wink, while the king himself stared at me in a way that made me feel even more uncomfortable.

'Make yourself scarce,' said Bishop Drax, waving me away as though swatting a fly. So, thankfully I walked backwards, bowing all the way, to the back of the hall.

'How disappointing,' said the king, with an amused tone. 'I thought perhaps the child was the gift.' At this there was laughter from everyone present, including the courtiers and servants who stood close by, though the queen eyed the king suspiciously. (Child, indeed; I was fourteen years old, and tall for my age.)

'So what is this gift?' the Queen asked. Her name was Guinervela, and she was as beautiful as her name, though her eyes had a fierce and uncompromising look.

'It is a chessboard, your majesty. Allow me.' Bishop Drax knelt and deftly opened the wooden case which, very cleverly, unfolded into a small table set with sixty-four shiny, rectangular black and white marble tiles, on which he placed sixteen black, and sixteen white, marble chess pieces, each one beautifully and intricately carved. 'Chess is a popular pastime amongst courtiers in the White Kingdom,' he said as he stood to admire the gift. 'And King Ivor had this set specially made for you, your highness.'

'I am unfamiliar with the game.' King Ebon stood and reached for one of the pieces, a black bishop. 'Not unlike you, Bishop Blackflower,' he said, addressing the smiling bishop. Then he reached for one of the two fierce-looking, white knights but uttered a curse and quickly withdrew his hand. 'That knight's sword is as sharp as a real one,' he said. A drop of bright red blood dripped from his forefinger onto the chessboard.

'A bad omen, sire!' said the unsmiling bishop. He looked at the chess pieces as though they were the tools of the devil.

The king grunted and returned to his throne, raising a hand to one of the servants who stepped forward to take away the chess board, lifting it carefully, but not carefully enough, because the black queen wobbled and fell to the stone floor where it broke into two pieces.

'A very bad omen, sire!' The unsmiling bishop was on his feet and glaring at Bishop Drax as though he was the devil himself. 'We should conclude this interview as quickly as possible and send this white sorcerer on his way!'

'Sorcerer!' exclaimed Bishop Drax in a high voice. 'How dare you speak to an emissary of the White...'

'Silence!' said King Ebon, in a loud and angry tone. 'Sit down, Bishop Craike. I will decide what will be concluded and when.' He glowered at the unsmiling bishop and then at Bishop Drax. 'Now, tell me, what is the real reason for your visit?'

My apologies, your highness,' Bishop Drax responded. Then he pulled a tightly rolled scroll from his sleeve – a copy of the one thousand year old treaty – and began to outline the proposal that he and Queen Beatrice had conceived. Namely that, due to an oversight by both the Black and White Kingdoms, a centennial exchange of castles and lands had not taken place, in contravention of the treaty agreed by both parties, and that the only way to fairly correct the oversight was for the agreed exchange to take place as soon as possible but for a duration of one thousand years.

‘Outrageous!’ Queen Guinervela shouted.

‘Impossible!’ Bishop Craike agreed.

‘Hardly practical,’ the smiling Bishop Blackflower said, in a more placatory tone; though his smile had slipped somewhat.

While an incredulous King Ebon, with a reddening face that looked fit to burst, in a quiet yet threatening voice, said ‘Exchange castles? Exchange lands? Is King Ivor completely mad?’

‘Why, no, your majesty,’ replied Bishop Drax lamely. If your highness needs a little time to consider your reply, then I’m sure…’

‘Time!’ exclaimed the king as he got to his feet. ‘I need no time! I will send my reply immediately. But a knight should deliver my reply, not a Bishop. Lend me your sword, Lord Darkangel.’ At this, one of the two knights, not young Blackavar, but an older knight, stepped forward and drew his sword, handing it to the king.

'Your majesty!' said Bishop Drax, in a tone that suggested he believed he was about to be knighted. Which, of course, he was not because, without warning, King Ebon swung the sword in an arc and neatly cut off the Bishop's head, which slid from his shoulders and bounced as it hit the stone floor, while his body just crumpled into a blood-soaked heap.

That was the only time I ever saw Bishop Craike smile.

Part Three – The Battle of the Two Rivers

The king returned the sword to Lord Darkangel and ordered him and the young Lord Blackavar to ride at once to the White Kingdom, where they were to deliver his message - Bishop Drax’s severed head - to the castle gates, and not wait for a reply.

Fortunately for me, as I began to shrink into a corner, I felt a tug at my sleeve, and turned, to find a tall boy of about my age, who pulled me behind a curtain and led me into a narrow tunnel. ‘My father’s in one of his black moods today,’ he said. ‘If you want to keep your head, you better come with me.’ We had similar tunnels in the two castles in the White Kingdom, so I was not surprised to be led through more of them and into the servants’ sleeping quarters, where the boy found me some black garments to wear and promised to ask his mother to find me a place in the royal household.

Naturally, I had assumed that the boy’s mother was the queen and that he, though poorly dressed, was a prince, which made him laugh, as he explained that though his father was the king, his mother was a chambermaid in the east castle and he was one of several royal bastards. ‘The only male bastard, though,’ he said with pride.

Later I heard that the rest of our party, upon seeing Lord Darkangel enter the courtyard with Bishop Drax’s severed head, decided to make a run for it; without first coming to look for me, that is; so what became of them I can’t say, and don’t really care. I was just glad to have retained my head and found a new friend; despite being demoted from royal hand-servant to dishwashing duties in the Eastcastle kitchens.

So you are probably wondering what happened next. Well, the grapevine in the two castles was excellent, and very little happened in the Black Kingdom without my new friend, whose name was Ebony, finding out, as he was popular with all in the royal household – except, I suspect, for the queen, who glowered at him if ever he came near her – so it is not difficult to put together the rest of this story.

Lord Darkangel, accompanied by the young Lord Blackavar on his wayward horse, rode all the way to the White Kingdom's castle gates and tried to hurl the severed head over the battlements just as Queen Beatrice was riding out through the main gate. And when the head bounced off the wall and landed with a splat beside her white stallion, a minor skirmish ensued, as castle guardsmen, about to accompany the queen on a hunting trip, loosed arrows at the two black knights, killing Lord Darkangel, and sending Lord Blackavar scuttling back to the Black Kingdom, where King Ebon immediately called a council of war.

'But does it have to mean war?' Bishop Blackflower asked King Ebon. 'We don't know for sure that King Ivor is planning to attack.'

'So you would have me sit here and twiddle my thumbs,' the king responded. 'King Ivor clearly sacrificed that irritating little toad of a bishop to provoke a war.'

'And then had Lord Darkangel killed,' said Bishop Craike.

'To provoke us further.' Queen Guinervela finished the Bishop's sentence for him. 'And to weaken us.'

'Attack is the best method of defence,' said the young Lord Blackavar. 'That's the first thing I was taught in knight school.'

'I will gladly replace Lord Darkangel.' Bishop Craike said, as he fingered the gold cross that hung from a chain around his neck. 'I may not be a soldier by profession, but God will guide my sword arm.'

'Good man!' King Ebon placed a hand on Bishop Craike's shoulder. 'I will be glad to have you at my side.'

‘But, your majesty, you cannot lead the attack yourself,' Bishop Blackflower protested. 'If you were to be killed or captured...'

'Bishop Blackflower is right, my king,' said the queen. 'You must be protected.'

'But if not I, then who will lead the men into battle?' the king asked.

'God will lead us!' announced Bishop Craike, still fingering his gold cross. 'God will lead us and I will be his right hand, and we will smite the enemy.'

At the same time as King Ebon was preparing for war in the Black Kingdom, King Ivor – angered by the beheading of his ambassador - was doing the same in the White Kingdom, though he was wisely leaving the attack to younger men who, blessed by Bishop Whiteleaf, also believed that God was on their side.

King Ivor's strategy was simple, keeping the Westcastle rooks in reserve, he would deploy the Eastcastle rooks in a frontal assault, designed to draw out the Black Kingdom forces then, in a pincer movement, his two cavalry divisions, led by his senior knights Lord Paleby and Lord Whitestone, would outflank the enemy and decimate them with two simultaneous cavalry charges.

And so, on a wet morning, three days after the deaths of Bishop Drax and Lord Darkangel, King Ivor’s Eastcastle rooks, accompanied by other foot soldiers and a hastily armed militia of peasants, were marching slowly to war, while the two cavalry units skirted east and west.

Fortunately the peasants knew the land better then the castle-dwellers and were able to advise on the best place to cross the river. Unfortunately, Captain Palefoot, of the Eastcastle rooks, insisted on following his orders to the letter and leading the army in a straight line across the Whitewater - the first of the swollen rivers - until, of course, he realised his mistake and turned his army due west towards the nearest crossing place, arriving just as Lord Whitestone was about to cross with his cavalry unit.

Now this is were opinions differ slightly as to what happened next. Some say the cavalry waited for the foot soldiers to cross, while others say they both crossed together and that it was a stampeding horse that forced some of the militia into deeper water, causing some of them to be swept away. But whatever the cause, there was a delay – and a few desertions, apparently - and as dusk fell, Lord Whitestone and Captain Palefoot agreed that it would be best to make camp and continue in the morning, with the foot soldiers leading and the cavalry well to the rear.

Now here the tale becomes really misty, and quite literally because, by morning, a grey mist covered the low ground between the two rivers, and as Captain Palefoot led his men east, towards the second crossing, followed by Lord Whitestone and his cavalry, the Battle of the Two Rivers began.

The day before, Ebony and I had watched from a window in Eastcastle as Bishop Craike, accompanied by Lord Blackavar and the whole of the Black Kingdom's cavalry, and followed by the Westcastle guards, had set out to war with trumpets blaring and banners flying. But they had made only slightly better progress than the white army, and had also camped between the two rivers after crossing the Darkwater. And if it were not for the rattle of their weapons and armour and the snorting of horses that misty morning as the cavalry spurred well ahead of the foot soldiers, they might easily have ridden straight into the white army. But fortunately, or unfortunately, someone had shouted 'Enemy ahead!' and both sides had come to a standstill as each peered into the mist.

'What do you think, Lord Blackavar?' Bishop Craike asked. He was in the lead by two horse -lengths, and he had to twist in his saddle to face the younger man.

'Hard to see anything in this mist,' answered Lord Blackavar. 'Who was it that called out?'

'None of our men, sir.' A young cavalry officer to his left replied.

Bishop Craike looked ahead again then, catching a glimpse of a white-clad foot soldier, and sensing an early victory was at hand, he drew the sword he had taken from the royal armoury and shouted, 'Charge!' And with that, the whole of the Black Kingdom's cavalry surged forward just as a storm of arrows was unleashed by the white archers, on the orders of Captain Palefoot, killing and wounding many men and horses.

But then it was the turn of the white army to have their blood spilled as what remained of the black cavalry cut through their ranks, killing Captain Palefoot and most of his men before running straight into Lord Whitestone who, despite the mist and confusion, had had the wit to order a counter charge.

'God is with us!' Bishop Craike shouted. 'He will make us victorious!' But at that moment Lord Whitestone, mounted on a huge white charger and wielding an impossibly long lance, came out of the mist and struck Bishop Craike square in the stomach, impaling and unhorsing him in one fell stroke. There was carnage then as the two sides clashed, thrusting and hacking and battering, with lances, swords and shields until, as the mist finally evaporated, a terrible scene of death was revealed. Finally, only one man was still alive and still in his saddle; and blooded and exhausted, he turned away and, riding past a bewildered Captain Blackthrust and his black-clad Westcastle guardsmen and militia, Lord Blackavar rode back to his king.

Part 4 – A Matter of Honour

So, the death toll now included two bishops, two knights and one Captain of the castle guards, not to mention countless cavalrymen and foot soldiers both black and white – though some had only feigned death, and slunk away later. Meanwhile, Captain Blackthrust was in a grim mood; probably unsure whether to be pleased or not as, despite the obvious advantages of the battle being over without him or his men receiving a single scratch, he would surely have felt rather cheated of personal victory. So it may have been with a heavy heart that he ordered his men to about face and head for home.

But then, all things come to those who wait, and Captain Blackthrust did not have to wait long, because, if you have been paying attention, you will remember that the other white cavalry division, led by Lord Paleby, were ordered to cross the two rivers somewhere to the east, in order to attack from that direction, and this they had endeavoured to do, though not without some delay. Enough delay, in fact, for them to arrive in the Blacklands just as Captain Blackthrust and his men had re-crossed the River Darkwater and were forming up to march home.

Well, to cut a short story even shorter: Lord Paleby's cavalry made mincemeat of Captain Blackthrust and his foot soldiers, and finding no one else to fight, and no sign of their comrades in the white army, they rode away; evidently having decided to head for home and seek further orders. We heard about this minor 'battle' – for want of a better word – from one of only a handful of Westcastle guards who had escaped. In fact, the poor man, a junior officer called Blacktoe, was hauled in front of a very angry King Ebon, and was promptly beheaded, while the king, still fuming over the loss of so many men, threatened Lord Blackavar with the same fate.

'The king won't stand for this,' whispered Ebony as we eve-dropped behind the curtain at the back of the Eastcastle great hall. 'So many good men killed, and the man he blames for it - your King Ivor - still alive.'

'But what can he do?' I asked.

'He'll storm up and down for the rest of the day, shout at anyone who comes near and threaten to have them beheaded, and then he'll call for his horse and armour and weapons, and he'll ride to the White Kingdom and challenge King Ivor to armed combat. And your King Ivor, old though he may be, will have to respond; it's a matter of honour.

'But how can you be so sure?' I asked.

'I know my father,' Ebony replied. 'I can read him like a book.' And Ebony was right; the very next day King Ebon did order his horse and armour to be made ready, and after a fierce argument with Queen Guinervela, he set off with Lord Blackavar for the White Kingdom, leaving the Westcastle guards to protect the queen.

Now here the story gets very interesting, because there was only one person with guts enough to defy King Ebon, and that person was the only one who truly loved him: Queen Guinervela. She owned a beautiful black stallion called Nightshade, and donning armour, complete with visored helmet, polished iron shield and a bejewelled scimitar, all taken from the royal armoury, she mounted her horse and set off after her husband, determined to defend him with her life if she had to, for she had no trust in honour or chivalry, and no trust in the king's royal cousin, King Ivor.

Which was, perhaps, a little unfair, because King Ivor was a chivalrous man, and when he heard that King Ebon, waiting beyond the castle walls, had challenged him, he sent for his horse and armour with every intention of taking his revenge for the deaths of so many of his men. Though he had put on much weight since he had last worn the armour and only his helmet still fitted him. So, after several attempts at shoehorning him into the rest of it, his servants had to send for a blacksmith to make alterations; by which time Queen Beatrice had heard what was going on and come storming into the armoury.

'But you cannot fight!' exclaimed the queen. 'You must send a champion!' Lord Paleby, who was present and had already suggested the same, as well as offering his services, stepped forward and did so again.

But the king was having none of it. 'I never wanted this war,’ he said, with a stern look towards the young queen. 'I should never have listened to you and Bishop Drax. But I am king, and I will bring this foolishness to an end, one way or the other.'

And so, with much effort, King Ivor was stuffed into his armour and hoisted onto his horse – a magnificent white charger - and armed with sword and shield, and accompanied by Lord Paleby, he went out to meet King Ebon.

'Bring me my horse at once!' the queen ordered the servants. 'And bring me my bow!' Queen Beatrice was, as you know, a strong-minded woman, and she was also an excellent horsewoman and archer, and after the speediest of changes into riding gear, she rode out through the gates just as the two kings, accompanied by their seconds, Lords Paleby and Lord Blackavar, had agreed the terms of combat.

'Who is that?' King Ebon asked, with narrowed eyes, as he saw Queen Beatrice riding towards them. But the question confused King Ivor, as at that moment a rider had come racing across the fields behind King Ebon; a rider clad in black armour and armed to the teeth by the look of it.

'Treachery!' exclaimed Lord Paleby. 'They mean to outnumber and kill us!' He sidled his steed against his king's, grabbing the reigns and forcing the animal to turn back towards the castle walls, before slapping its rump with his hastily drawn sword. 'Ride, your majesty, ride!' Then, as King Ivor's horse skittered away, almost loosing his bewildered rider, Lord Paleby turned and, dropping his visor, he rushed at the black-armoured intruder, while King Ebon and Lord Blackavar looked on, aghast.

Queen Guinervela, upon seeing Lord Paleby riding towards her, slowed her horse then, realising that this white-armoured upstart was daring to attack her, she dropped her visor, drew her sword and spurred her stallion into a gallop. The two riders looked equally matched and it was only a question of who had the longest or strongest sword arm. But at the last moment, the queen swerved her stallion diagonally across the front of Lord Paleby's and, as the two animals collided, flank against flank, she thrust her sword into the gap between the knight’s helmet and body-armour, slicing a bloody arc across his throat and causing him to loose first his balance, and then his life, as he fell from his horse and broke his neck.

Without looking back, she rode on and, by then, King Ebon had recognised her as his wife and did not know whether to be angry with her, or glad that she had so deftly despatched her attacker. But as she raised her visor and rode smiling towards him, a white-feathered arrow sped past him and struck Queen Guinervela right between the eyes, and she toppled over backwards and fell to the ground as her stallion cantered away.

'No!' King Ebon shouted, as he spurred his horse to where his queen lay and then slid from the saddle, but she had been dead before she hit the ground. King Ebon's rage now knew no bounds. He climbed back onto his horse and, drawing his sword, he dug in his spurs with such force that the beast almost threw him.

'Your highness!' Lord Blackavar cried. King Ebon was clearly intending to ride towards the archer and he would surely be killed. The knight spurred his own horse into a gallop just as another white-feathered arrow flew towards him, though a little too high and to his right.

By then Queen Beatrice was reaching for yet another arrow, but King Ivor, who had watched incredulously as first Lord Paleby and then the black-armoured newcomer had been killed, now rode towards his queen shouting 'Stop this, stop this at once. You have ruined everything.'

Lord Blackavar, now having two of the white-clad enemy almost within reach, charged first at King Ivor, striking hard with his sword as he passed him, and then at Queen Beatrice, who was about to draw her bow once more. But Lord Blackavar’s charger covered the ground between them before she could loose the arrow and, wearing no armour, she stood no chance as Lord Blackavar thrust his sword deep into her heart.

There were angry shouts from the battlements as those watching saw their queen die, and then more shouts, as well as screams, as King Ivor toppled from his horse. Lord Blackavar's sword strike had not killed him, but the king's heart was weak and, perhaps mercifully, it had given out. Suddenly there was a shouted command, and arrows began to fall about Lord Blackavar. But with not a glance in the direction of the battlements he rode back towards his king, who had sensibly stayed out of the fight.

King Ebon was sitting on his horse, out of range of the falling arrows. But he had dropped his sword and was holding a hand to his throat. As Lord Blackavar rode nearer, he realised that his king was wounded: an arrow had pierced the king's neck and blood was trickling through his fingers.

'Your majesty!' Lord Blackavar looked with horror at the white-feathered arrow buried deep in the king's neck, realising that the last arrow that the blond woman had let fly had not been aimed at himself, but at the king.

'Take us home,' said King Ebon, his voice just a whisper. But as Lord Blackavar reached across to take the reigns of the king's horse, the king slid sideways out of the saddle and hit the ground hard.

'My liege!' Lord Blackavar leapt from his horse and knelt beside his king.

King Ebon was choking on his own blood but he managed one last whispered command: 'Go home, my Lord, and make sure my son takes the crown.'

'But..'

'Swear it. Swear that Ebony will be King.'

'I swear it,' answered Lord Blackavar.

And then King Ebon Died, and Lord Blackavar wept.

‘It should never have come to this.' Lord Blackavar looked up to see a man dressed all in white, with a wooden cross hanging from a chain around his neck. 'I am Bishop Whiteleaf. Our king is dead. And yours too?'

'Yes... No. Long live King Ebony.'

***

And so that is how fifteen-year-old Ebony became King Ebony the Black. He had no idea that his father cared for him so; but as he had often reminded me, as we worked in the kitchens or scurried about the Eastcastle tunnels: he was the king's only son.

King Ivor's successor was Princess Ashen, a spotty, tantrum-prone child that I remember well. But by all accounts, she has made a good queen. At one time there was a suggestion that she and Ebony might marry but, thankfully, Ebony loved another and would not hear of it.

Who did he love? Why me, of course. The pawn who became a queen.

THE END
(I hope you enjoyed it)