Pacing is all he can do. Back and forth, across the battlements.
‘Lord,’ Chancellor Gilmont says, ‘Why don’t you come inside? There’s cold enough to freeze a fire out here.’
‘I’d not be sat doing nothing,’ he growls.
‘You will wear out the walls with your stalking,’ says the Chancellor.
He sighs and halts. ‘This is ridiculous. How can this be?’
‘Lord?’
‘I am the most powerful man on the continent, lord to all nobility, master to all common men, commander of our vast armies. Yet I can do nothing to help her.’
‘Birth is a battle only one person may fight, Lord,’ the Chancellor says, gently. ‘But I do not think she’d be unhappy to see you.’
‘Me? A man cannot be in the birthing suite.’
The Chancellor gives him a quizzical smile. ‘You are King, as you have rightfully said, so who is stopping you?’
‘Hm. Yes. You are right.’
‘So?’
‘So? What? Ah.’
‘You are afraid.’
‘I am.’
‘So is she,’ the Chancellor says. ‘So are we all. But she will comforted to have you by her side.’
He breathes out. ‘Alright. I shall go. I will be glad when this is all over.’
‘Not half as glad as she will be, I guarantee.’
Paddy Dobson
27th November 2022