The moon perched itself up high and bright while its light broke through the clouds as they past with a mild breeze. Below danced a young maiden, her headdress was made of leaves that had been chosen for their colour and kept for this night. As she frolicked around a fire, the shadows filled the field with a myriad of shades along the rows of vines down the banks. The Kings maiden however, had not been chosen for her skills as a dancer, nor her ability to lead the people on this night when the procession forms. His steward had chosen the young maiden for how she looked, soft on the eye with her long hair flowing around her while she danced.
When one of the men from the tables on high walked to her she would gracefully twirl to collect a ladle from the pot over the fire to refill the cups brought to her. The slow steam coming off the pot was a sign that the liquid was warm but not boiling, allowing the alcohol and herbs to mix. The space around the pot filled with the aroma of fruits and spices. With a tent set around the fire the smell was strongest and as the evening went on, the young maidens dancing strengthened, powered by the mixture coming from the pot.
Up the hill, under a cover of a tent sat the King and Queen, their faces illuminated by the torches around the edges. The steward, watching his choice closely for the night, sat to the side of the King, listening. To the other side of the Royal couple sat an empty chair. Vacant, and waiting for the King’s son to appear, to take his place above the gathering to bring in the new year.
With the tables filled, the feast was brought out. A blend of the year’s harvest and gifts from those who attended the meal. The change was subtle, but as the servants brought plates out to those further from the king, the platters slowly shrunk as did the plates. By the time the servants brought out the food for the tables furthest from the King, the platters were half the size, but the chairs were double. But tonight, was not to about feasting and to engorge your stomach, it was a moment to end the year and bring in the new.
As the King picked up his knife to begin the feast a roar could be heard from down the field. The atmosphere down the field was filled with song, music and a beer being shared. The sound matched the dancing and shadows of the young maiden but the quiet music by the King was being drowned out by the guttural sound from below.
‘Go and fetch my son’. The orders were spoken quietly from the King to his steward. The sheep skin pelts of the king shifted as he turned to his steward to give him the order. The night had grown cold and the elaborate clothes of the King had become buried under layers of pelts, each a gift to show his power, carefully laid on each other to show the sheep, wolf and bear skins that covered him to keep him warm.
The steward, dressed in fine clothes collected his black fur pelt to cover his shoulders, help together by a golden clasp marking him at the Kings steward, a token he wore with pride no matter the occasion. Carefully, he rose from his seat as a servant pulled back his chair. A purposeful walk, one that he took pride in holding, he often felt dignified in walking slowly regardless of the moment. Only a rushed man was to be ordered about. With his back straight and collected posture, he felt the eyes of those he deemed below him look his way, only to quickly hide behind mugs and food if he hinted at looking down the tables he walked past.
As he walked down the hill, he felt the cold breeze brush by him, thankful for his warm clothes he strolled through the hedge rimmed path and turned down the path. He watched the young maiden dance herself into a frenzy as the string instruments tried to keep up with her path. The aroma from the warm liquid in the pot taking its affect slowly. Next to him the rows of vines stretched far to both sides, having been prepared for the new year and next years harvest. The first signs of growth and the rich fruits they will grow not yet showing. The risk of a late frost was always a worry for the farmers and the new year.
The merry singing and the cheers appear to reach its peak as the steward met a soldier on guard at the orchard gates. The smell of ale met him before the words of greetings came from his lips. The steward, often called by his title and not his name, Atolfyr, walked past knowing a conversation would neither end well, nor be meaningful. In front of him would normally be a open space with a well neatly in the middle with the sparse barns to his left. Of course, this was not a normal day, and the space for carts and sorting servants and slaves was filled with Ale drinking and dancing. Fire pits had been set up leaving space for the procession to pass later that night. But he had to push his way through. Something he had become unaccustomed to with his title, and knights usually in front doing the work for him. The more he ordered people to move, the less willing they seemed to be.
Finding the King’s son was not going to be difficult. The ale was being poured from the large barrels stored in one of the barns and the mass of people needing their jugs refilled showed him quickly where to go. It is not often to see a prince acting the servant, and when he saw him pouring drink, Atolfyr was unsure when he had ever experienced such a sight. When the prince saw him appear in the crowd, he beckoned him over.
‘Make way you drunken fools’, his voice cut clear across the crowd and the rabble moved eloquently to let Atolfyr through with no hindrance. ‘Can’t you see the steward of the King, the great Atolfyr has come to grace us with his presence.’ Although his voice was merry and cheery, Atolfyr never took to being referred to as Great from the Prince. It was never meant in a kindly manor, which was the norm for how he spoke toward him. Even the prince understood that the steward represented the King, and to speak to the king’s steward in such a tone was to insult the King himself. A complaint that had been made often.
The barn doors were wide open, wide enough for a cart to be put in the middle and for men to walk either side of it with barrels on their shoulders if need be. These had been pegged open and a table had been put in the opening to allow the crowd to stand one side while the ale and cider were collected for the merry crowd. Atolfyr was not used to standing this side of the table but the crowd did not move to allow him to go round. The noise of the crowd appeared to rise with each step he had taken towards the table and he knew he would have to shout to get his orders across.
Atolfyr stood up straight, these were the words of the King he was to relay, he had to make sure they were clear and sound. ‘The king demands your presence for the feast of the New Year.’
The crowd fell silent.
All eyes appeared to go from their own fires, friends and fellow drinkers to the steward now stood tall in front of the prince.
The prince finished pouring the horn of Ale and handed it to the man next to the steward, who standing at least 2 heads taller than the Atolfyr received his drink but did not move. Atolfyr was not sure what caused it, but something glinted in the fire light that came from the numerous fire pits that had been made for the celebrations for the night.
‘Is this not the celebration of the new year around you fair steward’. The prince pointed at the gathering of people around the barns and fires. His face jolly and smiling at those as he raised his own jug at them and drained the contents before turning to refill. Something he had clearly done many times already on this day, with the accompanying cheer from the crowd with a mug drained in their honour. The prince continued but this time looking Atolfyr in the eye, ‘Why would I want to leave this gathering to come and sit at the tables with you, while you letch after the women dancing around the fire up there.’
The crowd rustled closer to Atolfyr, with the sensing of movement he instinctively moved his hand to hold the clasp across his chest.
‘Do not think that the golden clasp of my father will save you when the wolf comes for you little man’ the Prince jumped on the table and raised his axe high for the crowd to see. ‘For the wolf is out there, waiting for all of us. We wish to meet the mother on our day, but we all know that when the day comes, too many of us are left. Left for the wolf to come and find us, to pick at the scraps left after the glory is taken by those on high’.
The crowd whispers and watches to see how the steward chooses to react to the prince. But before anything can happen, the prince jumps down and picks up his jug of Ale. ‘However, today is a day of celebration for all. Why should we be parted from our family and kin?’
Atolfyr carefully breathes a sigh of relief, fearing that the prince may take a turn that he was not protected from. It was well known that he did not act like a prince should, too often talking to those beneath his station, allowing others to speak before others above them and the rumours continued to flow to his office. His evening activities were spoken of too often for it to be ignored much longer. The balance of ruling and staying true to the way of things was a fine one. His father had defended the kingdom from the goblin threat and, although there was a great cost to some, the treasury continued to grow, and no goblin had set foot in the kingdom. The kingdom continued to be safe and that was the purpose of the King.
‘Come all, let us join together up the hill to celebrate the new year and start the procession together’. The prince’s words took a moment to sink in to Atolfyr. In the moment it took him the man two heads taller than him had moved in front of him to begin the journey up the hill.
When the Prince reached the gateway to enter the vineyard and the field with the king’s party he found a series of guards stationed there. There was nearly no place where the prince would be stopped from entering but the same was not for the crowd behind him. The poles crossed blocking the path of the crowd once the prince and gone through.
‘Let my friends passed’. The Prince, all traces of his stance from before with the crowd now gone, this was the prince of the realm. His arms behind his back and the mug of Ale being held carefully so not to spill.
The guards did not move. Only a few could give orders that meant they would not listen to him. The prince told the crowd to wait, and he would shortly return to join them for the procession of the New Year. The time had come to bring in a new year and they began to collect their torches and prepare to scare away the evil spirits that had collected through the cold months, the growing crowd could be seen by the passing of torches spreading from the guards back towards the barns down the hill.
When the prince reached the King’s table he did not sit. He stood in front and calmly greeted his father and mother. The crowd had finished their meal and he noticed his plate of food was still their, waiting for him to eat before the festivities of the night continued. Bulging with a plethora of specialities from across the kingdom.
‘Badabryn, such joy for you to join us on this night’, the King’s joy at seeing his son hid the anger at his being so late and, once again, choosing to be with the workers in the field and not his family. A discussion that they have had many times before, and would be needed again.
‘Father, on this joyous night to banish the evil from these lands, should we not be celebrating together’, the jolly prince had returned and his Ale jug in had. ‘I see the fair maiden had joined us in the frenzy of the evening and you are surrounded by those who have helped to lead the kingdom through this past year.’
The crowd had turned to watch and listen to the prince, who so often heard through rumour and not seen in public with the crowd.
‘For the leaders of the 14 territories that make up this fine kingdom, I see you have all been brought here to bask in the richness and power of the Kingdom’. Raising his mug to toast all the leaders as they returned the gesture politely.
With the last of his Ale finished, Badabryn slammed down his jug in front of his father cracking the side of it. ‘But I don’t see any of those who worked on the field,’ the words now through gritted teeth. ‘The soldiers who at coming of age have been sent to the wall to defend our rich kingdom, nor do I see any of the mothers who bore the children into this world to support us.’
As he finished a loud call could be heard from the vines, behind the fire, ‘Sire’, the wail of Atolfyr broke through the silence turning the heads to see a crowd had formed. Atolfyr was held by the man two heads above him, while the guards who had held the poles and being led forward by the crowd, their weapons no more and their helmets removed.
All eyes turned to the King for guidance but the silence was broken not by him, but by the maiden from the fire. She walked up from the tent down to the steward and whispered softly into his ear ‘You think it was by chance you picked me out you sordid little man. A quick flash of an innocent eye and a well-placed apple to be picked up and you go where the spirits want you to’.
The flash of light was as quick as she turned, but while she began to walk back up the hill, Atolfyr’s throat was cut and he hung in the man’s arms while blood poured over the ground.
The guards saw this and began to struggle, causing the group holding them to tighten their hold. Eventually they were kicked to the floor on their knees. Their fate would be sealed by the kings choice of words to come.
‘What is the meaning of this!’, the king bellowed and many in the crowd backed away from their tables to stand clear of the maiden as she hopped from table to table up the hill.
The prince quietly bowed to the maiden as she picked up a cloth to clean her knife of blood. The cloth turned red as each drip was carefully cleaned off the knife, for a moment the King could but only stand there while the maiden carefully cleaned and placed it back in the scabbard hidden among the layers of her outfit chosen by the steward.
‘For too long father some of us have sat and grown fat while others toiled the ground beneath them’. The prince carefully spoke to be heard across the crowd of people at the tables. Despite his words many could not take their eyes of the corpse of the Atolfyr, now dropped on the floor and left. The flames caught the sight of the blood pooling around his body staining the grass. ‘You see, there was a time when this event was to scare away the evil. But now it seems the spirits can only do so much as a new evil has settled over these lands.’.
The young maiden leapt onto the table in front of the King who fell backwards over his chair onto the floor in shock. Slowly, the maiden crept forward to the Queen. ‘Everyone looks to the King for power’, she whispered. ‘But the mother brought life into this world, and it is she who takes those who have used it wisely at the end.’
The young maiden moved opposite the Queen, her hands were moved slowly, removing the crown as a dirty rag and peering into her eyes. Poking and massaging the skin to look at every crevasse. The Queen sat quietly, fighting the shakes that were spreading through her body.
‘Your time has come to an end’, the maiden’s hands held each side of her head and in one motion the queen found herself pulled over the table onto the floor. The maiden dragged her to the fire where the pot was still simmering away with the mixture of aromas as it had done through the evening.
The King tried to call for his guards, but he soon realised that the only ones that appeared were covered in the same colour as the grass by the steward. His thoughts fell to his son, wondering what had transpired to cause him to act in such a way. Why was he doing this to his father, his mother. How could he allow anyone to act in this way to his Kingdom, one that he was meant to lead against the dangers outside, not create a new one within.
The cheers from the crowd moving through the vines stopped as they began hold the lords and ladies that had sat around the top few tables, letting the others move through them as they tried to get away.
The King tried to climb over the table, ‘Bada’, the calls of the panicked King to his son pierced through the joyous laughter of the group holding steady the squealing lords and ladies, and collecting what was left from the tables. Sharing the meals of the kingdom together, as was the custom for this time of year. ‘Badabryn what are you doing? Is this your will to have your mother dragged through the mud by this yald’.
The word shot through the laughter and the crowd paused. The maiden let go of the Queen staring the King in the eye at the insult called out. Every hand could be seen on a sword, axe or knife. Without warning, Badabryn, had found his sword at the king’s throat.
‘You use words your majesty that are beneath a man of such a position’. The words leaked out through gritted teeth. With each syllable the tip pressed into the skin. ‘There were wise words I once heard when I was a boy. For tradition must be respected, but convention may be broken. When I was told these words I used to believe that it was the tradition of the King you spoke of.’
Badabryn turned to the young maiden, who now had the queen held with her knife in the fire, creating a warm glow around the shimmering metal. It did not shine like iron or steel, this silvery shimmer had a glow to it where markings, not of battle, began to shine.
‘What have you done?’, the King looked at the knife fearing what it will mean, not just for his wife, but what he feared it might mean.
‘But you see dear father’, Badabryn continued with a relaxed tone that was very different to the surroundings. ‘Your should indeed, respect tradition, but you are not tradition are you dear father. No, you are in fact, convention. A convention that has lasted too long, and forgotten are the traditions that protected these lands and the people who live here’.
While Badabryn spoke to his father, the guards who the King hoped would be saving him had appeared next to the lords and ladies. Each held in place by at least two of the workers from below. The feast that had now paused and a slow hum grew from the fire pit. The blade in the fire began to steam with the heat, the markings appeared to shimmer a glow, but not of heat, a colour that is only seen in battle.
The slow hum paused and the young maiden pulled the knife out of the fire, holding it high for all to see. ‘The King and Queen of the harvest have grown fat on the many years that they have seen. It is time for the land to be cleansed of the evil spirits that has settled here. The robins are coming home to bring in the harvest’
What followed seemed to happen without question. The knife from the maiden flew through the air, leaving a trail of heat where it went. The target was the King and it sizzled in the chest. The King fell to his knees and tried to pull out the knife.
Badabryn carefully kneeled in front of his father, cupping his hands over the fumbling fingers on the knife in his chest. ‘You see father, your time has come to an end. You have turned your back on what the ways of this land. Your convention has come to an end.’
With a twist, the knife was removed from the Kings chest leaving the blood to pour over the soil. Carefully, he walked over to the maiden to return her knife. His mother was held, weeping at the sight of her husband lying on the floor. Glistening from the flames as the light from the fires caught in the pool now spreading from the king.
‘Lords, ladies and stewards’, the jolly prince greeted those who had stuck to their chairs in silence as the maiden turned back to humming her tune by the fire. Warming her knife again while stroking the queens hair. ‘Tonight our kingdom will return to the tradition that many of us have turned our backs on. We will regrow our lands, to make sure all of us can be rewarded by the harvest, and together we can keep the goblin gate strong from the threat to our north.’
Badabryn strolled to the body of the king and, using his sword, picked up the crown of the fallen king. By right, he was now the King of the Kingdom, leader of his kin. The lords surrounding him had to choose quickly what they would do or risk the same fate as the King. If they had the choice to make at all.
The maiden skipped over to one of the torches, gently picking it up. Holding it firmly she handed it to the prince. ‘It is time for the new year to start,’ she began softly. ‘These lands need to have the evil spirits cleansed, the old tree has been touched and needs to be refreshed’.
With her last words she stroked the neck of the queen, who had frozen while she listened and watched. A shudder drove through her back while the maiden’s fingers touched her.
The prince motioned for the guards to move the crowd, while the man who ended the life of the steward walked over to carry the Queen and placed her one his shoulder. The procession was to start.
Through the vine yards the crowd followed the maiden, who danced as she had around the fire. Through the paths, stroking each line of vines and the trees that grew down in the orchard. This continued with the crowd continuing their songs from before with a silence that emanated from those who had sat up on the tables. The maiden waited under the tree and motioned for the Queen to be placed on a low branch. There she clung to the tree, thoughts of rumours she had heard as a girl about the actions in the forests of those who have lived in the kingdom before they were united.
The crowd surrounded the maiden with the lords and ladies of the kingdom in front. Torches were pushed into the ground to give the circle an even glow for all to see. The songs stopped and all eyes were on the maiden, with the prince standing in the crowd.
‘Oh blessed apple tree,
We come here to thee.
Our way has become a drift,
Please accept this pleasing gift.’
The maiden paused and looked at the prince, he walked towards her and took the knife from her hand. He then turned to the queen, his mother, who was holding the tree to steady herself.
The tree was old, the fruit had dried and not come forth for many years. Around the base of the tree there were no weeds, the soil was stale, and nothing grew. The tree had cracked, and it looked like a stiff breeze would break a branch off.
Badabryn looked up at his mother and reached his hand up to her. He placed the knife in his belt and offered to bring his mother down from the tree. ‘It is ok mother, the trouble has ended. We will bring prosperity back to the orchard and the kingdom.’
Shakily, she took his hand and begin to edge off the branch. But the tradition required something big, it had been a long time since the ancient tree had been part of the new year tradition. From leaving the branch his mother sighed as her feet landed on the ground next to the tree. She blinked in disbelief that she would see the morning of the next day.
Then the horror around her met her eyes. The 14 lords in a circle fell at once to the floor. A motion she was used to Queen of the kingdom. However, this time the ground became sodden with the blood of the kingdoms. A gift from all the regions to the tree at the centre.
‘Come to help us here dear robin,
For what we need is bread.
Without you beside us here,
We would surely lose our head!’
The maiden chuckled as she turned to the queen, her eyes had changed from the young maiden dancing around the fire, the green glow was bright, empowered by the 14 lords surrounding her. The prince, taking the knife from his belt, held it out to the maiden while she chanted the words for all to hear. Calling for the robin of the orchard to return for the new year.
The Queen, recognising the words from stories as a young girl, turned to her son knowing her time had come. ‘What have you done my boy?’. The moment her last words had be spoken the warm knife found her throat.
‘The life of the Queen will bring in new life for the year ahead.’ The Maiden shrieked for the crowd to hear. The cheers followed and barrels of wood and kindling were quickly assembled into a ring around the tree and the torches were used to start it.
The merriment continued until the fire ended deep into the morning. The maiden sat in the tree listening to the crowd taking turns to jump over the fire to call out for their wishes for the year ahead. The crowd in turn, repeating each wish.
The prince, made his way up the hill back to the where his father’s body was still on the ground. The body, now covered in blood and mud from when he tried to crawl up the hill, was the old way of life after the events from down below. No longer would the new King’s people rely on just the will of the King, or the steel of the men at the Goblin Gate for protection. Now they had renewed their bond with the spirits of the land. The prince, no the King, King Badabryn. The title sounded odd in his mind. He never thought the day would come. He never imagined that it would be in a field of blood. His fathers blood. He looked at his hands, his clothes, even his sword was in a state that his father would disapprove of, for a king.
The new king looked at his surroundings. The mist was settling around the hills to bring in the new day but the festivities would last until the afternoon for some. The maiden had left the circle to join the new king. She smiled at him while he surveyed his kingdom. Then catching his eye, she smiled for the first time since calling on the robin to return.
‘Are you ready?’
S J Lister. Author 