The Queen of the Lists – Part 1: The Oath

"Kneel, and take the oath," said the Queen.

Garrett knelt on the flagged floor of the great hall in a plain linen shirt, one hand on his heart. He was forty-two, a stonemason who restored old stone walls for a living and who had, for three winters, been secretly fascinated by the idea of a ruler who would take him in hand. Aurelia was thirty-nine, a barrister, tall and fine-boned, and had spent a month researching the rules of medieval courts.

The estate was hired for the weekend: a grey stone hall, a smoking fire, a gallery, a stair, and a single oaken throne. Before he had stepped through the doors she had sat him down with a sheet of heavy paper, in her best calligraphy, headed The Articles of the Court. His limits and hers. No marks, no pain beyond what they had agreed, no real humiliation, no leaving the estate. The word was Banner.

"Say it."

"Banner."

"If you say it, the Queen steps down. I am Aurelia. We sit by the fire."

"I understand."

Now she sat on the throne in a long gown the colour of wine, a circlet in her dark hair, and her voice was a different thing: low, slow and absolutely sure. "Sir Garrett of the Lists. You have failed the Crown in the tournament. Do you deny it?"

"I do not, Majesty."

"You do not deny it. You are guilty." She leaned back. "Your sentence will be the discipline of the court. You will serve me this night, in every word and deed, within the Articles."

"I accept, Majesty."

"Do not thank me. Wait."

He waited, kneeling, while she consulted a scroll, spoke softly to an imaginary herald, took a long drink from a silver cup. It was ceremonial and slow, and his whole body relaxed.

"Does my champion wish to continue?" she asked at last.

"I do, Majesty."

"Then we begin."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Dismissal.