The King's Shadow

The Summons: Harvest's End

The scent of woodsmoke hung low, clinging to the damp earth and the last of the harvested fields. Eleanor Lovelace, hands stained with the deep purple of late-season blackberries, moved with a practiced grace through the rows of drying herbs. The late October sun, weak but persistent, slanted across the garden, painting the frost-kissed leaves in shades of gold and russet. She breathed deeply, the sharp, clean air filling her lungs. This small patch of earth, tucked away from the village of Oakhaven, was her sanctuary.

She wasn't a woman for grand houses or fine gowns. Give her soil between her fingers, the weight of a full basket, the quiet rhythm of the seasons, and she wanted for little. Her mother, a wise woman whispered to be touched by the old magic, had taught her everything. Not spells or charms, but the true knowledge: which leaf soothed a fever, which root eased a pain, which berry held a hidden strength. The villagers came to her for remedies when the apothecary in Market Down was too costly, or too dismissive of a simple ailment.

Today, though, the peace felt fragile. She’d been noticing a restlessness in the air for weeks, a subtle shift in the usual autumn calm. The birds seemed quieter, the animals more skittish. Even Old Man Hemlock’s usually cheerful donkey brayed with an unusual mournfulness. It wasn’t a feeling she could name, just a prickling awareness that something was coming.

“Eleanor?”

The voice, rough but familiar, belonged to Thomas, the shepherd. He leaned against the weathered wooden fence, his face creased with worry. He was a good man, Thomas, solid and dependable, and a friend to her since childhood.

“Trouble, Thomas?” she asked, carefully snipping the stems of rosemary.

He pushed himself upright, his gaze scanning the fields. “A rider. Royal livery. Been asking after you at the village.”

Eleanor’s hand stilled. A summons. She hadn’t received one in years, not since… well, not since her mother’s passing. A cold knot formed in her stomach. “Royal livery? What did he say?”

“Said he carried a message for a healer skilled in herbs. A message for you, specifically. From London.”

The news settled upon her like a shroud. London. The very thought felt suffocating. She hadn’t been to the city since she was a girl, accompanying her mother on a rare trading trip. The noise, the crowds, the sheer… weight of so many people. It had always felt like drowning.

“What could they want with me?” she asked, more to herself than to Thomas.

He shrugged, his brow furrowed. “Could be anything. The King’s household is vast. Someone likely needs a skilled hand.”

Eleanor doubted that. Kings didn’t summon herbalists for simple coughs and bruises. There was always a reason, a purpose, hidden beneath polite requests. Her mother had warned her often enough. “Power,” she’d said, “always has a price, child. Never offer your gifts freely.”

She continued to gather herbs, her movements mechanical. She needed time to think, to sort through the possibilities. But the rider would be back. They wouldn't leave a message and disappear.

“I’ll need to prepare,” she said finally, her voice flat. “Gather supplies. It's a long journey.”

Thomas nodded, offering a rare, awkward pat on her arm. “You’re a strong woman, Eleanor. You’ll manage.”

She forced a smile, though it felt brittle and unnatural. Strong, perhaps. But strength didn't always shield you from harm. Sometimes, it just meant you carried the weight of it for longer.

The following morning, the royal messenger arrived, a young man with a stern face and polished boots. He presented a sealed scroll, the King’s crest pressed into the wax. Eleanor didn’t bother reading it. She already knew what it said. An invitation, phrased as a command, to present herself at Hampton Court Palace.

She packed with a heavy heart. Her tools: ...