Helen "HP" Rivers

The Queen stared ahead blankly, apparently deep in contemplation, not turning as the door creaked open. “Ladies,” she whispered, “thank you for coming.” 

Out scampered the chamber maids and midwife, pulling the great oak door gently closed behind. The women filed in and encircled the bed, first The Grandmother, then The Priestess, then The Aunts, the Sisters, the Queen Mother, the Queen Grandmother, all silently searching for clues as to why they had been summoned. 

With careful scrutiny they examined her, communicating to one another with only a series of glances, facial expressions, and soft tut-tuts. The Grandmother spoke first.

“So you had a rotten time of it, hm?” The question was brash and to-the-point, but the tone was gentle. 

The Queen instinctively shook her head. “No, not terribly,” but even she didn’t believe the words as her eyes and breasts both began to leak as she spoke.

The Sister sank to her knees and reached to gently stroke The Queen’s forearm. She stared deeply into her sister’s eyes, consumed with sympathy and compassion. “My first one,” she said softly, “I shit the bed twice and tore halfway up my arse.” 

There was a murmur of endorsement from the circle.

“My knockers turned to lead the second day – not sure who was crying more, the babe or me!”

“Aye, I reckon my midwife’s seen more of me than my husband ever will, or cares to.”

The Queen almost smiled, comforted by the chatter and community.

“You know,” one of The Aunts mused, “I recall one of my midwives telling me about an old legend, some sort of prophecy. Said that one day, a Mother will experience a labour pain so great that it disturbs her soul, becoming a channel for great, disruptive change.”

“I thought that was just an old wive’s tale they say to everyone to make us feel better,” said The Sister.

“So did I,” replied The Queen flatly, staring blankly ahead once more.

The Priestess tried to catch The Queen’s gaze. “Tell us what you mean.” 

The Queen paused, carefully selecting her words. Eventually she turned to lock eyes with the Priestess, whispering, “My son is the sole heir to the throne.”

The Priestess nodded slowly, “Yes, as soon as he is of age, he can rule.”

A long, heavy silence filled the room as understanding settled gently over the circle.

“Are we all to understand,” said The Grandmother, once again first to break the silence, “that The King is dead?”

“The King is dead,” repeated The Queen, hanging her head solemnly.

The Grandmother nodded. “Long live The Queen.”

The others echoed in reply, a chorus of prayers offered in earnest anticipation.

Across the room, The Aunt pulled a kettle from the fire just as steam began to escape the spout. The shriek was brief, but just enough to rouse The Prince from his slumber. 

The Grandmother strode across the room with a slow and even pace, eventually looming over the ornate cradle where her Great-Grandson stirred. She stared down at the child for a long moment, her expression blank and cold. 

Slowly, she reached deep into the folds of her traveling cloak, eventually producing a small silver drinking flask. She passed it to The Aunt without a word, and nodded to The Priestess, who turned on her heel towards the heavy oak door and beckoned the maid to return.

The Grandmother looked down again at her Great-Grandson, this time smiling. Everything about her demeanor softened as she stooped low to lift the child and gather him close in her arms. As she rose the infant stirred further and she felt the ancient, familiar rush of feral love moving through her veins. 

She rocked the boy gently in her arms as she turned, smiling all the while. 

“Dear, please send for The King.”

The Grandmother set The Prince down gently in The Queen’s arms. 

“I daresay he’s waited long enough for a spot of tea with the heir to his throne.”

The End.