Note: this is a short story I wrote for english class, hope you enjoy it.
“Thomas.” I was standing at the bottom of the narrow, creaking attic stairs, hoping that my teacher and mentor was up there. He was often sidetracked and easily confused. But he was a genius. The best known astrologer in the country. One thing is sure, however, he loves our moorlands. More so than the grey English cities with their slums, treacherous back alleys and muddy streets. When no answer came, I clambered up the worn steps the best I could without making them groan ominously under my feet, into the cramped, dusty, dim space beneath the roof in case he was already there, preparing for my lessons. I found him by his telescope at the single window, perusing one of his numerous charts.
“Master Thomas, you are wanted down stairs.” He raised his head and looked at me, incomprehension lighting up his owlish eyes amidst wild hair and beard, white as new fallen snow.
“Really! What could be so important to bring visitors at this god forsaken hour of the day?”
“I don’t know sir, but they look like emissaries from the King.”
“Oh well. Might as well humour them.” Another startling fact about my teacher is that, most of the time, he never takes anything seriously, apart from what he sees in the night sky. The men waiting in the parlour were of plain looks and medium height, who would have nothing to distinguish them. Except they wore red and gold surcoats, gleaming mail and long swords at their hip, announcing them as royal guards. They weren’t chosen for their looks but for their fighting skills. Especially for their fighting skills, with the rebels still operating in the Britannic wilderness and a likely threat to the English monarch.
“My Lord. His majesty is in need of your advice,” the oldest of the two spoke up briskly when I re-entered the room with my master in tow. “We are to escort you to the capital.”
“Oh! I see,” came the mumbled reply from the aging astrologer. “Well, I’ll send a message as soon as I see something that his Majesty might have overlooked.”
“But Sir! He wants to see you in person,” interjected the same guard as Master Thomas turned to leave and return to his beloved attic, unaware of the threat from the half drawn sword.
“Oh very well! Seems it’s time to pay my favourite nephew another visit. Boy, go pack our trunks, we are needed at court.”
After several days of travel through grey seas, with tall waves that often crashed upon deck and unrelenting icy rain, we arrived at the garbage smelling docks of London. An escort of royal guards were waiting for our arrival, with thinly veiled impatience in their eyes, holding extra horses for our small party. It was a short, quiet ride to the palace that took us through narrow streets amongst crowded wooden buildings. I wondered if this reunion between my master and his royal nephew would be friendly. From what I’ve heard, when they were last together sixteen years ago, they had a disagreement which resulted in Master Thomas resigning from his post as the royal astrologer and leaving court for the Welsh moors by the sea.
It seemed that the King, at least, was happy over his uncle’s return to court, as the three days following our arrival were filled with festivities in his honour. There was a riot of colours as each lady tried to outshine their rivals and possibly attract a potential husband if they were yet unmarried. The Great Hall resonated and vibrated with laughter and music that drifted down to the city through its gaping doors. I was like a fish out of water at all the sights that bombarded my country eyes. My duties were forgotten.
On our fourth morning away from home, we received summons from the King to meet him in his council chambers. When we were admitted, the King was pouring over maps of hi kingdom with a distant and slightly disgruntled look in his eyes.
“Uncle, I need you to resume your former duties at court.” He did not even look up to see who it was or if his uncle was alone. My master gestured me to a corner before moving closer to the table with the slow steps of an old man. I did not miss the look of pity and regret in his eyes as he looked at his nephew, who barely in his prime, was already cold, calculating ant self-centred man.
“You, of all people, should know that when I left court sixteen years ago, I had n intention of returning.”
“Damn you old man! There is more at stakes than your bruised ego. I need you. The kingdom needs you,” spat out the King, his eyes flashing with sudden anger as he looked to the old man for the first and only time.
“I have done what I could for the kingdom, the rest is up to you.” His unshown feelings giving a slight edge to his voice. “I have taught you all you were willing to learn about the stars and still give you a chance at the kingship.”
“But that’s not enough, uncle. I need something I don’t have.”
“And what would that be?” Like my master, I knew what would happen next.
“Your skills! You old crippled fool. I lack your skills to keep my kingdom together.” He was like a cornered wolf with nothing to lose. “I need your skills to obtain the peace I need.”
“No my boy. You do not lack skill. What you lack is control.” Master Thomas’s words were like icy water to the red faced monarch whose blood shot eyes were darting around the room.
“Control! Control! Who needs control when I’m denied what I want,” yelled the King, stung by the calm, open words of his uncle.
“You do, if you want to keep your throne,” replied my master, turning his back to his nephew.
“Stay right here, old man. I’m not finished with you.”
“Now you have. Come youngster we’re going home.” He paused in the doorway giving me a slight push towards the corridor. “I had hoped that you had matured into a decent and sensible adult since I last saw you. But I see I was wrong.” I got a last glimpse of the King before we moved out of sight down the corridor. He was slumped against the table, tears tickling down his haunted face. Then it was all over. I can scarcely remember the voyage home. I was worried for my master. He seemed to be regretting something, what it was I did not know. Not yet any ways. Weeks after the resuming of our routines, we received the news. The King was dead. Killed in an attempt to suppress the northern rebellion. Only then did I understand my master’s regrets. He had known. For sixteen years he had known.
