Grumble and Gasp: Of Rabbits and Regicide - Chapter 3, Part 1

Of Rabbits and Regicide – Chapter Three: The Spring in his Step

by Brude Bowyer

Dawn’s golden fingers had already flicked away the darkness above Camulos by the time the royal caravan was finally ready to leave. The Queen’s personal bodyguard, Sergeant Cornelius Grumle, shifted his weight. He had been sitting atop an oversized rooster for over an hour; its plumage, a gaudy mix of crimson and emerald that made him feel as conspicuous as a signal beacon, even in the crowded square. The beast preened beneath him, ruffling its feathers with an unwarranted pride that belied its ridiculous appearance. Grumle kept his spine straight and his eyes forward regardless of the circumstances, the very picture of military bearing. His gray eyes carefully scanned the convoy spreading out before him. For fifteen years he had been guarding royalty, and in all that time would-be assassins had never announced their attack with a battle cry. They attacked from the shadows, or from behind the smiles of a trusted friend.

Around him, the capital of Camulos exhaled its last frozen breath; frost-rimmed towers and snow-dusted battlements gradually surrendering to the growing warmth of spring. Servants scurried like frightened mice across the dew slick cobblestones, loading the last of the royal family’s belongings into ornate carriages. The city walls loomed overhead, scarred sentinels that had stood watch for centuries. How many times had these ancient stones borne witness to the royal family’s annual migration to their summer sanctuary?

“Grumle. Grumle,” a voice called, jarring him from his assessment of the perimeter. “Does this rooster make me look important?”

Prince Lucien’s cherubic face grinned up at him, the boy’s golden hair catching the newborn sunlight like the crown he would some day wear. He was riding atop what would be a fine riding rooster in the future, but was now barely more than a chick. The bird, still covered in the yellow fluff of its youth, had not yet developed its adult feathers. Still, the eight-year-old prince’s eyes sparkled with pride atop his spring chicken.

“You’re the prince,” Grumle answered, his voice a graveled rumble from disuse. “You’re important regardless of mount.”

“Father says roosters are ridiculous beasts,” Lucien persisted, his mount stumbling and skittering around Grumle’s own. “But they look regal to me.”

“Your father,” Grumle said carefully, “appreciates tradition.”

He did not mention that the king had assigned Grumle his rooster personally.

The Queen emerged from the warmth of the keep and approached the carriage; Grumle’s attention snapped to her like a compass finding north. Queen Lillith was wrapped in emerald silk, her dark red hair arranged in elegant curls beneath her modest crown, an ermine cloak around her shoulders her only defense against the chill of early March. She paused at the carriage door, green eyes scanning the convoy with the same care and practice Grumle had given moments earlier. She missed nothing. Never had.

“Sergeant Grumble,” she greeted, only ever referring to him by the nickname she had teased him with when they were much younger.

“My Queen,” he responded, inclining his head in dignified deference.

The rooster beneath him chose that moment to stretch up on its toes and emit a strangled crow, shattering all attempts at dignity. Lillith smiled in open amusement before quickly schooling her features back to regal composure. Grumle’s ears burned beneath his battered open-faced helmet.

He felt the King’s eyes then, sharp as arrowheads, boring into him. from . Thaddeus Avenhart stood in the royal pavilion, framed in velvet and gold. An artist with the upper body of a man but the two legs and tail of a hound was just finishing the latest royal portrait. The king’s gaze fixed on Grumle while his hand rested on the pommel of a jewel-encrusted sword; the weapon only ornamental, but the gesture was clear.

He was a good king by all accounts, but Grumle had never developed a taste for the man.

Grumle shifted his attention back to the convoy as Prince Lucien bounded away astride his chaotic yellow puffball, a whirlwind of fluff and questions. He stopped before a young squire, demanding to examine her crossbow with the innocent entitlement unique to children of power.

“I heard that crossbow bolts can pierce plate armor at a hundred paces; is it true?” the Prince asked, hands already reaching for the weapon.

The squire glanced uncertainly toward Grumle, who gave a slight nod. Supervised curiosity was better than an unsupervised accident.

“It will pierce chain-mail at sixty paces, Your Highness,” the squire answered, carefully demonstrating the loading mechanism without loading a bolt. “But to pierce plate, you’ll have to let them get a bit closer.”

Elara Branlow approached the queen’s carriage, the lady-in-waiting moving with natural grace, though her steps were more a military march than demure footfalls. Something about her profile always caught Grumle’s eye: a certain angle of chin, a familiar set of the shoulders that tugged at the edge of his memory like a half-forgotten dream. He frowned, then dismissed the thought. All these years in service had him seeing phantoms in every shadow.

“We received a response from the Duke of Normandy, Your Majesty,” Elara murmured, passing a sheaf of parchment to Lillith. “And I’ve taken the liberty of including the reports from the southern provinces.”

“Thank you, Elara, you are always one step ahead,” Lillith replied with warm approval.

Grumle had often noticed that the queen was especially encouraging to her new lady-in-waiting. A distinction her predecessors had never enjoyed. Another mystery about the young woman he had no time to explore, as the master of mounts finally signaled readiness.

The lances of the officers rose in response; Grumle raising his spear to mirror his superiors. The signal rippled through the guard. Fifty soldiers in gleaming armor swung atop their varied mounts, mostly solid, reliable horses, with a few officers riding their personal siege-dogs or snail mounts, leaving Grumle alone atop a rooster.

King Thaddeus finally emerged from the pavilion, trading the jeweled, ornamental sword for real steel as he walked to the royal carriage. He paused beside his wife, one hand claiming the small of her back as he helped her up the steps into her carriage. Grumle kept his eyes fixed forward.

The royal family boarded their respective carriages, the King and Queen in the lead conveyance. Prince Lucien was installed reluctantly in the second carriage with his tutors; his rooster chick being returned to the stables only after his vocal objections. Orrin was captain of the king’s guard and occasional executioner, a man both taller and broader than the already imposing Grumle. He rode up on a majestic black stallion. “Nice chicken, Cornelius,” the bigger man chuckled. Grumle suppressed his embarrassment and gave one of the few men he considered a friend a small smile. The signal horn sounded, clear and bright in the morning air, and the convoy lurched into motion.

Grumle guided his mount to position beside the Queen’s window, close enough to protect her, far enough for propriety’s sake. Orrin took a similar place on the other side of the carriage as the king’s bodyguard. Grumle’s ridiculous mount strutted with each step, its head bobbing in a prideful rhythm that threatened to crack Grumle’s carefully maintained composure.

Beyond the city walls, the countryside opened before them like a half-finished painting. Winter’s grip still clutched the northern fields; patches of snow nestled on northern hillsides and in shadowed hollows, while southern slopes had already surrendered to spring’s advance. Farmers paused in their morning labors, bowing as the royal procession passed. All save one farmer named Dennis, who followed outside the royal carriage and spoke most eloquently about the complexities of civil government, before the king sent Orrin to trounce the man. “Help, help, I’m being repressed!” cried Dennis as the caravan moved on.

The elevation dropped gradually as they proceeded, each mile bringing them closer to the warmer climate of the summer palace by the sea.

Grumle’s gaze swept continuously across the landscape, checking the tree line for movement, noting the positions of each passerby, marking the distance to each farmhouse. This journey was routine, made twice yearly as the seasons changed, but Grumle had learned long ago that routine bred complacency, and complacency often bred disaster.

Inside the carriage, he caught glimpses of Lillith through the window; her profile resplendent in the shifting patterns of sunlight through the glass. Once, her eyes flicked up to meet his, a fleeting electric connection severed when the King leaned forward to claim her attention. Grumle adjusted his grip on his spear and kept his eyes on the tree line.

The rooster beneath him ruffled its feathers, preening and flouncing as if it fully understood its role as a royal punishment. A group of comely young milkmaids giggled at the pompous animal as he passed. Grumle allowed himself a single, small, irritated sigh. The procession continued its winding path toward the summer palace, and his mount strutted along with it.

Thanks for reading. The story is a work in progress, and I welcome all comments and constructive criticism. This is book 0 in the Grumble and Gasp quadology. If you find yourself liking the story and wanting more, the full first novel is available on Kindle and Amazon.

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Want to know if I killed off your favorite character? I probably didn’t, but how can you be sure? The rest of this chapter is just a link click away.

Chapter 3 Part 2

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