Ravens’ Hour

2 am. Ravens’ Hour. The hour when the darkness is as obsidian and lush as a raven’s wing. A watchful, alert time for those who choose to be awake. Or for those who have no choice.

Tarquin hurried along the dim passageway, his feet made swift by the command that had called him from the cocooning comfort of his bed at this late hour. Flames bent and flickered alarmingly in the hand-beaten gold candle sconces that adorned the walls, the light disturbed and dashed into violence by the breeze he created in his flight. The thin soles of his court slippers slapped and echoed eerily against the flagstone tiles: tiles carried from the King’s Quarry in Maidenhead, tiles mined by the sweat and blood of conscripted men who labored until death to provide stone worthy of the royal footprint.

Tarquin’s bedchamber was located in the west wing, as befitting a trusted consort of the King, and it took him only minutes before he reached the foot of the broad stone stairs that lead to the Monarch’s quarters. Here he took a moment to compose himself, to smooth out the creases in his hastily grabbed court robes, to still his overwrought mind, and to pull the fingers and thumb of one hand down his cheeks to meet in a point under his chin, ensuring the grey and chestnut hairs of his neatly trimmed beard lay even and flat. Even at Raven’s Hour, King Oliphant expected his staff to appear before him polished, precise, and ready to receive his command.

Tarquin Rutherford was a nobleman, a man of impeccable character and breeding, a man with no need to boast of his many and varied accomplishments. Tarquin, erstwhile commander of the courageous and brave armed forces of the Kingdom of Mortana, had risen through the ranks through sheer force of will and an unwavering determination to succeed. Tenacious and persistent, handsome and headstrong, he had crushed the Kingdom’s enemies, vanquished all who disobeyed, and subjugated the masses into passive obedience. All in the King’s name, naturally.

The gratifying outcome of Tarquin’s redoubtable efforts and loyal service to his Monarch was his current role and title – Tarquin Rutherford, Hand of the King. Tarquin was well aware of exactly what his title afforded him and it pleased him to see the spark of respect and admiration in the eyes of the men to whom the King granted his introduction.

Tarquin’s title came with more than just entry to the King’s closest circle. Tarquin’s title came with the assurance of a Senior Ministerial Pension, a prize as opulent as the name suggested. The guaranteed pension, a hard won reward for Tarquin’s long and faithful years of service, was enough to furnish the purchase of a fine home and provide Tarquin with a healthy salary for the remainder of his days.

With a final adjustment of his robes, with one last smoothing of his eyebrows with a spit-moistened fingertip, Tarquin climbed the short flight of stairs to reach the heavy, gold-hinged, polished oak door. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand on the wood and inched the door open.

King Oliphant, a man known throughout the land for his ferocity, fearlessness, and decisive, cut-throat, iron-fisted rule, was tying the final knot on the sash of his silken, monogramed purple robe as Tarquin stepped inside the royal bedchamber. He lifted his hazel gaze and stared at Tarquin without raising his lion-maned head, his greeting no more than a grunt, before padding on gnarled, blue-veined bare feet across to the arched window at the head of the chamber.

Tarquin waited silently, standing just a few footfalls inside the door, his hands clasped behind his back and his spine straight. He had made many such a pilgrimage to the King’s bedchamber, often beckoned on the strength of the King’s whimsy or his pressing need to have his midnight thoughts heard by a confidante, and Tarquin was well aware of the etiquette and courtesy required for such an honour. ’Twas a small price to pay.

“I have a decision to make.” It was an idle statement, an external musing of internal thoughts, nothing more. The comment required no response and the King expected none. King Oliphant, his gaze distracted and thoughtful, turned away from his observation of his night-hued realm from the strategic viewpoint of his window and began to pace.

Tarquin amused himself whilst he waited; biding his time as he pictured the refinement and beauty of the house that he planned to accommodate his retirement years. An awe-inspiring property, a salubrious dwelling worthy of a nobleman of his experience and ilk. Somewhere in the country perhaps, and surrounded by deep blue moats and luxurious, verdant fields of imported grasses and pink-tipped, curved petals of clover. On the very border of the Kingdom, far removed from the shadow of the castle…

The King stopped pacing and scowled at Tarquin from under heavy, grizzled brows. “I seldom care to repeat myself but I think the occasion calls for it. Make haste to rouse Eldridge and inform him that his services are required immediately. He will know what to do.”

Tarquin made sure to keep his face still and impassive, asking no questions and raising no quibble, broadcasting respect and willingness to serve with every nuance of his being. The King had spoken and it was not worth Tarquin’s neck to cross-examine his decision. Many a lesser man before him had made that mistake and not lived to tell the tale. Besides, Tarquin had his much-anticipated retirement in the country to consider.

“That is all.” The King’s tone was imperious, final, setting the sovereign seal on his instructions. He had already turned away from Tarquin, expectant of the fulfilment of his desires and satisfied beyond doubt that his word was law. His hands busily untied the sash of his robe as he marched towards the majestic draperies and linens of his four-poster, king-size royal bed. Tarquin hastily ducked his head into a low bow and backed away, catching an unwanted glimpse of the King’s pale, hairy rump as he hitched up his silken nightshirt and climbed onto his rumpled sheets. Tarquin reached the partially ajar door and slid his body lithely and gracefully through the gap, intent on delivering the King’s order with speed and precision before returning to his own slumber.

“I’ve changed my mind.” King Oliphant’s strident voice carried easily along the corridor, bouncing off the flagstone tiles before wrapping itself around Tarquin’s ears. “Tell the cook I want peanut butter and jelly this time. On white bread. No crusts.”

The End