Books by Ian Rogers
Books by Ian Rogers
By Ian Rogers
Day by day they followed the road down to the plains. The snow turned to rain but it never stopped. Everywhere was hard going. The rain drove into their faces and seeped through their clothes and every road was a sea of mud. From dawn to dusk they rode, all day of every short winter’s day, until they reached the capital. With a great clatter of hooves and a spray of mud they rode into the Palace yard where they dismounted and handed their steaming horses to the grooms. The Prince patted an ancient bloodhound that belonged to the gatekeeper.
“Where’s the King?” he asked.
“In the Great Hall, sire. The Privy Councillors and the whole court are discussing the threat from Intransiga.”
“Thank you, Carl.”
The Alcaldé dragged himself along behind Hal as the Prince strode off. The Great Hall was ablaze with lights. A long red carpet ran through the middle with crowds of tightly packed courtiers on each side. Heads turned to look and silence fell as the two travel-stained figures entered, dripping water and mud. John, the Prince noticed, was white as a sheet and knocking at the knees, probably convinced the King would clap him in irons in the deepest dungeon.
Knights bowed and ladies curtsied as the Prince passed, but he looked only towards his father, on the throne on a dais at the far end of the hall with the Queen sitting on his right. At the foot of the dais steps Hal stopped. The Privy Councillors to the right and left of the King and Queen stood and bowed to him. The King beamed at his son and glanced wonderingly at his rough companion. The Queen bit her lip and said nothing.
Hal bowed. So did John, who fell to his knees, forehead to the floor.
“Father,” Hal said, forgetting for a moment all the royal titles, “Allow me to present your one-time friend, the former Alcaldé of Parcival - John Weaverson.”
<< Previous Chapters Next >>