Queen Laveth, a milk white maiden from the region of Glynnis Fen, was a dozen years younger than her husband.  Ranald had caught her gathering firewood from the royal forest but before it could be lit, she’d found herself in his bed. It had been a brisk afternoon and Laveth had needed wood to warm her chamber. There was, however, no chill in her veins. 

            She could claim noble blood on her mother’s side, the late Lady Falene; indeed, it was her uncle’s crumbling structure, Castle Glynn, where Ranald and his men had lodged, but Laveth, growing up motherless in a backwater depleted by war had, for all practical purposes, been raised as a peasant. The Warrior King believed the golden-haired beauty had dropped from the sky. That she lacked a lady’s education, had unrefined tastes and was ignorant of all but the merest essentials of court protocol, mattered not one whit to the battle-weary King. Castle Ursaulis had long been a womanless place, and Laveth had literally been a light in a dark spot.

            The men came round first, rough nobles with whom the King had hunted and warred, men who wore dirty boots and came into the Great Throne Room with their hounds. Men who tugged and twisted their hands and blinked at her as if they’d just seen daylight. Laveth had smiled sweetly at each one.

            Their wives came next, curious and overdressed, resentful of the girl they’d dubbed ‘The Peasant Queen’. Laveth’s smile cooled and they’d left angry at the absence of humility in one above her station. Meekness was missing because Laveth, have made a clear-sighted observation, saw no need for it.

“This Textured Darkness” copyright by Joan Spilman, 2023