Read The King's Shadow free: the opening chapter
A free sample of The King's Shadow. About 16 minutes of reading.
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: mortar and pestle, small scales, a collection of dried herbs carefully wrapped in linen, glass vials for tinctures and oils. A few changes of clothes, simple and practical. A small, worn book of her mother’s remedies, its pages filled with handwritten notes and faded sketches. And tucked away at the bottom of her bag, a silver locket containing a miniature portrait of her mother. A tangible link to the life she was leaving behind.
Lady Anne Neville, a childhood friend from a neighboring estate, arrived just as she was finishing. Anne, elegant in a riding habit of dark green velvet, was everything Eleanor was not: graceful, charming, and utterly at home in the world of courtly manners.
“So, they’ve finally summoned you,” Anne said, her voice laced with a mixture of amusement and concern. “I always knew your skills wouldn’t remain hidden forever.”
Eleanor managed a wry smile. “I hoped they would.”
“Don’t look so grim. It could be a great opportunity.” Anne surveyed the neatly packed bags. “Though you seem to be preparing for a siege, not a visit.”
“One never knows what to expect at court,” Eleanor replied, carefully securing the lid of a wooden chest. “Best to be prepared for anything.”
“You always were the practical one,” Anne chuckled. “Listen, I’ll come with you. My uncle is a gentleman of the King’s privy chamber. He can help you navigate the… intricacies of the palace.”
Eleanor hesitated. Anne’s offer was generous, but she preferred to rely on herself. “I appreciate the thought, but I wouldn't want to impose.”
“Nonsense. I insist. Besides,” Anne lowered her voice conspiratorially, “court life is far more bearable with a friend. And you'll need one. It’s a viper’s nest, Eleanor. Trust no one.”
As they rode away from Oakhaven, Eleanor glanced back at the small cottage, smoke curling from the chimney. A wave of sadness washed over her. She was leaving more than just a home. She was leaving a part of herself.
The landscape blurred past: golden fields giving way to dense forests, rolling hills rising to meet a grey, overcast sky. She felt increasingly detached, as if watching her own life unfold from a distance.
A hawk circled overhead, its cry sharp and piercing. Eleanor found herself staring at the bird, searching for some sign, some omen. But there was only the vast, indifferent sky.
Then, in the distance, a figure on horseback appeared, riding at a swift pace. It wasn’t the royal messenger. This rider wore no livery, no identifying marks. He was cloaked in shadow, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.
He spurred his horse forward, cutting across their path.
“Eleanor Lovelace?” the rider called out, his voice low and resonant.
Eleanor reined in her horse, a prickle of unease crawling down her spine.
“A word, if you please,” the rider said, his eyes, dark and intense, fixed on hers. “A warning.” He leaned closer, his voice a barely audible whisper. “Trust no one at Hampton Court. Especially those who offer you kindness.”
Before she could respond, he wheeled his horse around and galloped away, disappearing into the trees.
Anne gasped. “What was that about?”
Eleanor stared after the disappearing figure, her heart pounding in her chest. The prickling awareness she’d felt for weeks had sharpened into a cold, hard certainty. She was riding into a trap. And she had no idea who, or what, awaited her at the end of the road.
“Especially those who offer you kindness.”
Before she could respond, he wheeled his horse around and galloped away, disappearing into the trees.
Anne gasped. “What was that about?”
Eleanor stared after the disappearing figure, her heart pounding in her chest. The prickling awareness she’d felt for weeks had sharpened into a cold, hard certainty. She was riding into a trap. And she had no idea who, or what, awaited her at the end of the road.
“I… I don’t know,” Eleanor finally said, forcing a calmness she didn’t feel into her voice. “Probably just a disgruntled farmer with a grievance.”
Anne didn’t look convinced. “He seemed rather… urgent. And serious.”
Eleanor urged her horse forward. Dwelling on the warning wouldn’t help. Action would. "Let's press on. Hampton Court awaits, whether we’re ready or not."
The late harvest clung to the air, a scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Eleanor breathed deeply, trying to recapture the solace she usually found in the natural world. At Oakhaven, she understood the rhythms of the land. She knew when the first frost would come, when the berries would ripen, when the deer would seek shelter in the woods. She could coax herbs from the soil, heal wounds with poultices, and predict the weather by the flight of birds. It was a life lived close to the earth, a life of quiet independence.
She’d learned those skills from her grandmother, Old Maggie, a woman whispered about in the village as a wise woman, a healer, perhaps even… more. Eleanor hadn't cared for the whispers. She simply valued the knowledge Maggie had imparted, the understanding of the natural world that had sustained their family for generations.
Now, that world was receding behind her, replaced by the stone and tapestry of the royal court. A court where knowledge of herbs and healing would likely be seen as witchcraft, where independence would be mistaken for insolence, and where quiet strength would be interpreted as defiance.
She glanced at her hands, calloused from years of working the land. They weren’t the delicate, graceful hands expected of a lady-in-waiting. They were the hands of a woman who could build a fence, harvest a field, and deliver a calf. Would those hands be welcomed at Hampton Court? Would they even be tolerated?
“You seem troubled, Eleanor,” Anne observed, noticing her companion’s distant gaze.
“Just… remembering Oakhaven,” Eleanor said, offering a small smile. “It feels strange, leaving it all behind. My garden, the woods… everything I know.”
“You’ll make a new life here,” Anne assured her. “A better one, perhaps.”
Eleanor doubted that. She hadn’t sought this life. She’d been content with her quiet existence, her small cottage, her healing practice. But her sister, Margaret, desperate for a connection at court and convinced of Eleanor's hidden talents, had insisted. Margaret, the beautiful, ambitious one, had seen an opportunity to elevate their family’s status, and Eleanor, ever the dutiful sister, had reluctantly agreed to take on the role of companion to Lady Beatrice, a distant cousin of the Queen.
She smoothed the folds of her dark wool riding skirt, the fabric rough against her skin. She hadn’t bothered with finery, choosing practicality over appearance. She’d packed sturdy boots, warm cloaks, and a small satchel filled with dried herbs and remedies. Old habits died hard.
The sun finally broke through the clouds, casting a pale golden light on the landscape. Eleanor took a deep breath, bracing herself for what lay ahead. She was a woman of the earth, thrust into a world of courtly intrigue. She didn't know the rules of this new game, but she knew one thing: she would survive. She would use her skills, her instincts, and her unwavering determination to navigate the treacherous currents of Hampton Court. And she would uncover the truth behind the mysterious warning, no matter the cost.
The Royal Messenger Arrives
The clatter of hooves on the gravel drive cut through the quiet of the afternoon, startling Eleanor. She’d been organizing the few possessions she’d brought with her, attempting to make the guest room feel less…foreign. It smelled of beeswax and something faintly floral, a scent she couldn’t quite place. Not the earthy fragrance of chamomile or lavender she favored, but something sharper, sweeter.
She glanced towards the window. A single rider, cloaked in the crimson and gold of the King’s messengers, approached at a brisk pace. It was unusual to receive a direct summons so soon after arriving. Lady Beatrice had barely had a chance to present her to the court.
Anne, who had been sketching in a small book, looked up with a questioning glance. “A message already?”
“It seems so,” Eleanor replied, a knot forming in her stomach. The messenger’s expression, even from this distance, appeared grim. It wasn’t the triumphant bearing of someone delivering good news.
The messenger dismounted with practiced efficiency, handing the reins to a stable boy. He was a man of middle years, his face weathered and lined. His gaze swept over the house, briefly settling on Eleanor before returning to the door. He moved with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to delivering orders, not requests.
He offered a formal bow to Anne and Eleanor. “I bear a message for Mistress Eleanor Lovelace.” His voice was rough, devoid of warmth.
Eleanor stepped forward, accepting the sealed scroll. The wax bore the royal crest, a stark reminder of the power behind the summons. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal. The parchment within was filled with neat, precise script.
“By order of His Majesty, King Henry, you are requested to present yourself before him at Hampton Court Palace this evening. Your skills are required.” The message was brief, formal, and utterly lacking in explanation.
“Skills?” Eleanor echoed, her brow furrowed. “What skills could His Majesty possibly require from me?”
The messenger’s expression remained impassive. “That is not for me to say, Mistress Lovelace. Only that the King desires your presence. You are to depart within the hour.”
“But… I only just arrived,” Eleanor protested, glancing at Anne, who offered a look of sympathetic concern. “I’ve barely settled in. And I have no idea what the King would want with a simple herbalist.”
“His Majesty’s will is not subject to questioning,” the messenger stated flatly. “Comply, and you will be rewarded. Delay, and face the consequences.”
The threat, though unspoken, hung heavy in the air. Eleanor felt a chill despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. This wasn’t a request. It was a command. And it felt… ominous.
“This is highly irregular,” Anne said, her voice low after the messenger had departed. “To summon you so quickly, with no explanation… it’s unsettling.”
Eleanor paced the room, her mind racing. What could the King possibly want with her? Was this some sort of test? A cruel jest? Or something far more dangerous?
“Margaret mentioned something about the King being interested in medicinal herbs,” Eleanor offered, grasping at a possible explanation. “Perhaps he’s taken ill and requires a remedy?”
Anne shook her head. “The Royal Physicians are the best in the land. They wouldn’t need a country healer for a common ailment.”
“Then what is it?” Eleanor whispered, her voice filled with anxiety. She pictured the vastness of Hampton Court, the intricate web of courtly politics, the ever-present danger that lurked beneath the surface. She wasn’t suited to this world. She was a woman of quiet routines, of healing balms and fragrant gardens.
“It could be anything,” Anne said, her voice laced with caution. “The court is full of secrets, Eleanor. And those who uncover them often pay a steep price.”
Eleanor glanced at the small satchel containing her herbs. It felt woefully inadequate in the face of whatever awaited her. She had traded the familiar comfort of her cottage for this… this uncertainty. And now, she was being pulled deeper into a world she didn’t understand.
Preparing for her audience felt like preparing for a battle. She couldn't rely on fine gowns or elaborate hairstyles to protect her. Instead, she focused on what she could control. She meticulously cleaned and polished her small brass mortar and pestle, a tool she'd used countless times to grind herbs and create remedies. The familiar weight in her hand offered a small measure of comfort.
She chose a simple gown of dark green wool, hoping to blend into the shadows rather than draw attention to herself. She braided her long brown hair, securing it with a plain ribbon. She would present herself as she was: a skilled healer, but a humble one.
As she fastened the clasp of her cloak, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the looking glass. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with apprehension. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her. Was this the same woman who had happily tended her garden just days ago?
“You look as though you’re going to the scaffold,” Anne said, entering the room. She was dressed in a rich velvet gown, her hair elaborately styled. But even her usual composure seemed strained.
“It feels like it,” Eleanor admitted, managing a weak smile.
Anne placed a hand on Eleanor’s arm. “Remember what I told you. Observe everything. Trust no one. And above all, protect yourself.”
Eleanor nodded, taking a deep breath. “I will.”
The journey to the palace was a blur. The carriage rattled along the road, carrying her closer and closer to the unknown. She tried to focus on the passing landscape, but her mind was consumed by worry.
As they approached Hampton Court, the sheer scale of the palace took her breath away. It was a sprawling complex of brick and stone, a testament to the King’s power and wealth. Banners bearing the royal arms fluttered in the breeze. Guards stood at attention, their faces stern and unyielding.
The courtyard was a hive of activity. Courtiers in elaborate costumes strolled through the gardens, their voices echoing off the stone walls. Servants hurried about, carrying trays of food and drink. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and the murmur of conversation.
Eleanor felt a wave of disorientation. She didn’t belong here. She was an outsider, a stranger in a strange land.
The carriage stopped before the grand entrance. A liveried footman opened the door, and Eleanor stepped out, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked up at the towering facade of the palace, its windows like dark, watchful eyes.
A cold feeling settled over her. She was a pawn in a game she didn't understand. And she had a terrible feeling that her life had just changed forever.
As she walked towards the imposing doors, a figure emerged from the shadows. Sir Reginald Thorne. He moved with a grace that bordered on predatory. His eyes, dark and assessing, met hers, and a faint smile touched his lips.
“Mistress Lovelace,” he said, his voice a smooth, silken whisper. “Welcome to Hampton Court. I trust you are prepared to be of service to the King?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come. His Majesty awaits.” He turned and began to walk, expecting her to follow, and for the first time Eleanor felt a prickle of true fear. This wasn't about healing. It was about something far more dangerous. And she was walking right into it.
…And she was walking right into it.
Eleanor followed Sir Reginald, her steps measured, her gaze sweeping across the richly adorned hallways. Tapestries depicting scenes of heroic battles and mythical creatures hung on the walls. Suits of armor stood guard, their polished surfaces reflecting the flickering light of the torches. The air hummed with a suppressed energy, a sense of watchful anticipation.
He led her not toward the state rooms she’d imagined, but deeper into the palace, down a series of narrow, winding corridors. The sounds of merriment faded with each turn, replaced by an unsettling silence. Finally, they stopped before a heavy oak door, devoid of any ornamentation.
“Wait here,” Sir Reginald commanded, his voice devoid of warmth. He knocked sharply, then paused, listening intently. A gruff voice responded from within, and the door swung inward. Sir Reginald spoke briefly, then gestured for Eleanor to enter.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, a stark contrast to the opulence she’d glimpsed earlier. A large, ornate desk dominated the space, covered in papers and maps. Standing before it was a man she’d only seen in portraits, Master Thomas Cromwell, the King’s ever-powerful advisor.
He didn’t offer a greeting, merely assessed her with the same calculating gaze as Sir Reginald. “Mistress Lovelace. You have a reputation for skill with herbs and remedies.”
“I do, Master Cromwell,” Eleanor replied, keeping her voice steady.
“The King suffers… discomfort. A persistent ailment that confounds our physicians.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “He has heard of your abilities. He wishes you to attend him.”
Eleanor’s breath hitched. To treat the King himself? It was an honor, certainly, but also a terrifying responsibility. “I am humbled by his Majesty’s request,” she said carefully. “I will do my utmost to alleviate his suffering.”
“See that you do.” Cromwell’s tone was less a request than a command. “His Majesty is not a patient man, and failure will not be… tolerated.”
“I understand,” Eleanor said, though she understood very little. What kind of discomfort was it? And why, of all the healers in the kingdom, had the King chosen her? She was a country woman, skilled in folk remedies, not a physician trained in the latest medical theories.
Cromwell gestured toward a side door. “The King is in the solar. Sir Reginald will escort you. You will speak to no one, answer no questions, and reveal nothing of this consultation. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Eleanor confirmed, her apprehension growing with each passing moment.
As she followed Sir Reginald once more, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being led into a trap. Cromwell’s words were polite, but his eyes held a warning. This wasn’t simply about a King in need of a healer. It was about something hidden, something dangerous.
The solar was a surprisingly intimate space, lined with bookshelves and filled with the scent of beeswax and old paper. Henry VIII sat by the window, his back to the room. He was a larger man than she’d imagined, his broad shoulders filling the space. He turned slowly, and Eleanor found herself staring into eyes that were both piercing and weary. He was a king diminished, and the sight of his vulnerability did little to ease her mounting fear.
“So,” he said, his voice resonant but laced with pain. “You are the woman who claims to work miracles with plants.” He didn't offer a smile, only a scrutinizing look. “Let us see if your reputation is deserved.”
The sample ends here.