So my friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
To be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep tonight.
In tonight's story.
We will travel back to medieval times.
And to a grand castle.
There we will meet the Queen.
And follow her through a simple day and night in her life.
It is winter.
So the fires are lit throughout the castle.
And it is cozy and warm throughout.
So all I ask of you tonight is to indulge yourself.
And enjoy this walk back in time.
As we follow.
The Medieval Queen.
But first,
Let's do the relaxation session,
Which will take a few minutes,
Before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from 10 to 1.
And as I do.
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
Feel the support.
Of the bed beneath you.
Or is it floor?
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
And beneath what you lie upon.
Feel a deeper support.
The support of the earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And as you become aware of that support See if you can.
Sink into this moment a little more now.
Just.
Let go.
A little more now.
Nein.
Yeah.
Are safe.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of safety tonight.
To be a friend.
To be a gentle guide.
A guide that only ever brings you.
To safe places.
To warm and cosy places.
Places.
That enable and support.
You will sleep.
Trust.
That my voice is a friend tonight.
Feel into your body now.
Notice where you might still be holding tonight.
Notice where you may have pain.
Or tingling.
Attention.
Notice anything.
Maybe you feel something in your feet.
Or in your lower legs.
Resize.
Or your belly.
Your chest.
Shoulders.
Your neck.
You back.
Arms.
Hands.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold tension in your face.
Just see if you can soften a little now.
This is it time.
For kindness to yourself.
And to your body.
Seven.
The day is.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
But right now.
All you have.
Is this moment.
Your thoughts can't change what has gone before.
Your thoughts can't change.
What will come tomorrow.
Your brain.
Needs rest now.
So,
As thoughts come and go now Don't fight them.
Don't chase them away.
See them for what they are.
Thought.
Then just.
.
.
Watch them go.
Like leaves.
Floating away.
On a moonlit river.
Or clouds.
Passing through a starlit sky.
6.
This is your moment.
This.
Is your time.
You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself.
You deserve.
To have peace in your life.
We all do.
So,
As you become aware of that fact as you.
Come to the understanding.
That we all deserve peace.
See.
If you can settle into this moment.
A little more now.
Letting your body know.
That it's really time for rest.
5.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is a constant friend.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Where does it live within you?
Maybe it's in your heart.
Maybe it's in your head.
It's up to you to find it.
But I promise you it's there.
Perhaps,
Allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude.
For the simple things.
Through your body.
The shelter you have tonight.
For the ones you love.
And who love you.
For the beauty and wonder of this world.
Of this planet.
That you can find.
When you look for it.
Three.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
The Grand Medieval Castle.
There is a storm outside.
And it is raining.
But the fires are lit inside.
And it is safe and cosy there.
Checking in with your body one more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself to give in.
To allow the tension to ease away.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time.
To give it rest.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's sleep story.
It was still dark when the fire was tended to.
In the great bedchamber at the top of the round tower of Kermont,
A girl called Edith came in on quiet feet.
As she did every morning before the bell.
And knelt at the white stone hearth.
She stirred the banked embers with the iron.
Laid on two split logs of seasoned oak.
And waited.
Until the first flames took hold,
And began,
Softly,
To crackle.
Then she slipped out again.
And the room was left.
To the firelight.
And the rain.
The rain had been falling all night.
It fell on the slate roofs of the towers.
And on the lid of the chapel.
On the cobbles of the inner yard.
And the thatch of the stables.
And it ran in long ropes from the gutters and gargoyles down into the moat.
It drummed gently on the shutters of the Queen's tall windows,
A deep Steady.
Endless sound.
And beneath it.
Far off.
The river that circled the castle Moved high and brown and slow.
Queen Eleanor of Kermont lay in the great bed beneath three layers of blankets and a coverlet of fur.
And listen.
She had been half awake for some time.
In that warm,
Shallow place between sleeping and waking.
Where the sounds of the world arrive.
Without asking anything of you.
She heard the fire crackle and settle.
She heard the rain on the shutters.
She heard.
Very far below.
A door closed somewhere in the depths of the keep.
And the small,
Ordinary beginnings.
Of the castle's day.
She kept her eyes shut a while longer.
Because in midwinter.
Even a queen is permitted ten more minutes.
And the bed was deep.
And the furs were heavy and warm.
Against the cold air of the room.
When the chapel bell rang for prime,
She opened her eyes.
The chamber was full of moving orange light.
The fire had taken properly now.
And its glow reached up the tapestried walls.
And across the beams of the ceiling.
And the shadows of the bedpost.
Swayed gently with the flames.
Beyond the firelight.
The windows were still black.
Dorn in December,
Came late to Kermon.
And grudgingly.
The door opened.
And Mathilde came in.
Carrying a candle in one hand and a folded gown over her arm.
And behind her.
Two girls with a basin.
And a tall jug of water that steamed.
Still raining,
Said Mathilde by way of good morning.
She had said the same thing every morning.
For 11 days.
I can hear that it is still raining,
" said the Queen.
From inside the furs.
There is thunder coming too.
What says?
He says his knee tells him so.
And his knee has never once been wrong.
Which I find hard to believe of any knee.
Mathilde set the candle on the chest at the foot of the bed and held her hands out to the fire for a moment,
As everyone did,
All day,
In every room of the castle.
In winter.
The water is hot,
Madame.
Come out before it isn't.
So the Queen Rose.
The rushes on the floor were strewn with dried lavender.
And meadow-sweet from the summer.
And they released a faint,
Sweet ghost of warmer days as she crossed them.
She washed at the basin by the hearth.
Where the heat of the fire kept the cold off her shoulders,
With water warmed in the kitchens and scented with a little rosemary.
And the steam rose up.
Golden in the firelight.
Then came the dressing,
Which in winter was a long and layered business.
And one she had long ago stopped hurrying.
First the linen shift.
Soft from years of washing.
Than thick stockings of grey wool.
Gartered at the knee.
Then a woollen kirtle the colour of dark honey.
Laced up the sides by one of the girls.
Whose fingers were quick and warm.
Then over that.
The winter gown itself.
A deep madder red,
Lined throughout with fur,
With sleeves so wide and heavy.
That they had a gravity of their own.
A belt of plaited leather with a silver buckle.
Soft leather shoes over the stockings.
And less.
Because the corridors of a castle in December are a country of their own.
With their own bitter weather.
A mantle of thick blue wool.
Fashioned at the throat.
With a round gold brooch that had belonged to her grandmother.
Mathilde brushed out her hair,
And braided it,
And coiled the braids,
And pinned them And over it all set a veil of fine white linen.
And a simple circlet of gold.
None of this was rushed.
The fire crackle.
The rain went on.
The two girls carried the basin away.
And the water side.
As they poured it out.
The garter robe shoots.
Down into the rain.
To join the rain.
There,
" said Mathilde,
Stepping back.
A queen.
I was a queen in bed as well.
Said Eleanor.
You were a hill of furs in the bed,
Madame.
Now you are a queen.
They went down together to the chapel.
Along the gallery.
Where the wind found every gap in the shutters.
And made the wall-hangings breathe.
And down the spiral stair.
Where iron brackets held torches.
Whose flames leaned and recovered As the draughts came and went.
The whole castle smelled of wood smoke.
It was the smell of winter itself.
Oak.
Smoke.
And beeswax.
And whetstone.
End.
Rising from below.
The first warm breath.
Of the Bakehouse.
The chapel was small and very old.
Older than the rest of the castle.
With thick walls and narrow windows of greenish glass That the rain ran down.
In trembling lines.
Candles burned on the altar.
And in the niches.
Dozens of them.
Each flame perfectly still in the sheltered air.
And the breath of the small gathered household.
Showed faintly in the candlelight Father Anselm sets the office in a low,
Even,
Unhurried voice.
That had been saying it for forty years.
The Latin,
Rising and falling.
Like slow water.
And the queen stood in her stool.
With her hands folded inside her sleeves.
And to let the old words go past her.
And over.
And around her.
Requiring nothing.
Asking nothing.
The same yesterday.
And today.
And tomorrow.
Outside.
Dimly.
Beyond the thick walls.
There was a first long low.
Grumble of thunder.
Far away.
Down the valley.
What's knee?
Sought the Queen and bowed her head.
It had predicted right.
After chapel.
She broke her fast in her solar The small private room above the hall,
That was hers alone.
Were the best fire in the castle.
Burned in a hearth,
Carved with two long,
Thin greyhounds.
Edith had been in here too.
The logs were fresh.
The flames were high.
In the room.
Was properly.
Deeply warm.
Warm in the walls.
Warm in the cushions.
The kind of warmth a room only has when a fire has burned in it.
Every day for a month.
She ate at a small table drawn close to the hearth.
There was bread,
Still hot from the bakehouse.
With a crust that crackled.
Almost like the fire itself.
And sweet butter.
And honey from the castle's own hives.
And a dish of stewed apples with cinnamon.
And to drink.
There was hot spiced wine.
Well watered.
In a silver cup that grew pleasantly warm in her two hands.
Initiate slowly.
The rain pattered against the horn panes of the solar's one glazed window.
And Mathilde sat on a stool.
On the other side of the hearth.
With her own bread.
And Tarun.
Because they had known one another for thirty years.
And there were rooms where ceremony was left at the door.
And this was one of them.
What is today.
Asked Mathilde.
The Queen considered.
Looking into the fire.
Letters.
With Brother Osric.
Than the kitchens.
Because it is the feast of Saint Lucy on Sunday.
And Bess will want to tell me everything she is planning at great length.
And it is easier to go to her than to be sent for.
Then what wants me to see the Apple Loft?
He has been wanting me to see the Apple Loft for a week.
He is very proud of the apple loft.
He is.
Than the midday meal.
And after it the manor accounts,
And two small disputes,
And then,
Mathilde,
Nothing at all.
Embroidery,
And the fire,
And the rain,
Until supper.
A good day,
Said Mathilde.
A winter day,
" said the Queen.
Which in Kermont meant the same thing.
Brother Osric arrived as the bell rang terse.
Carrying his writing-box.
And a leather satchel of correspondence.
And shaking the rain from his cloak at the door like an elderly and dignified dog.
He was somewhere past.
70.
Entirely bold.
And he had served three rulers of Kermon.
As clue.
And remembered the reigns of all of them.
An exhausting detail.
He read aloud.
Very slowly.
The Queen had long ago decided.
That this was one of the most restful things about him.
He settled himself at the table.
Arranged his inks and his penknife.
And his sand shaker just so.
Drew the first letter from the satchel.
Broke the seal.
Smoothed the parchment flat with the side of his hand.
Hold it to the firelight.
And cleared his throat.
From the abbot of Whitmere.
He began.
Greetings.
The Abbot of Whitmere wrote,
At length,
About fish.
The Abbey's fishponds had flooded in the rains.
And a number of the Abbey's carp had taken the opportunity to leave.
And some of them had been recovered from a field belonging to a miller who had views about whose carp they now were.
The abbot set out the history of the ponds,
The lineage of the carp,
And the character of the miller in that order.
Brother Osric read all of it in his slow,
Deep voice.
Pausing at the difficult words while the fire crackled and spat.
And the rain ran on the window.
And the thunder.
Rolled in the distance.
And the queen sat with her chin on her hand.
And her eyes half closed and listened to the matter of the carp.
As one might listen to a story told to children.
Right to the abbot.
She said,
When at last it was done.
At the cop.
Shall be divided.
Ha to the Abbey.
Half to the miller.
And the miller to help mend the pond-walls in the spring in exchange.
And greetings.
And Greetings.
Murmured Brother Uzzerick.
Already writing.
His pen made a small scratching sound.
Very fine and dry.
Under the larger sound of the rain.
The thunder came again while he wrote.
Alone.
Rolling note.
Like a barrel.
Going slowly across a wooden floor somewhere above the clouds And the fire dipped once in the trough.
And rose again.
There were more letters.
There was a letter about the repair of a bridge.
And a letter from her cousin in the north.
Complaining handsomely about the snow.
The letter from a wool merchant.
Who wished to be allowed to build a second warehouse.
And to each of them.
The Queen gave a measured answer.
While the morning went quietly by The solar smelled of ink and wood-smoke.
And the beeswax candles on the table,
Lit even at mid-morning.
The day beyond the window.
Could only manage the kind of pewter-coloured twilight and showed no ambition for anything brighter.
The last letter Brother Oserich drew out with a different look on his face.
And the queen sewed the seal on it.
From across the table and sat up.
From the King.
Said Brother Ozric.
With the smallest smile.
The king had been gone since Michaelmas.
Away south on a long,
Slow,
Comfortable embassy Of treaties and feasting.
At the court of an old ally.
The kind of errand that involved no danger whatever,
And a great deal of dining.
His letter was short.
Because he wrote his own letters and hated doing it.
The roads are mud.
He wrote.
The talks are finished and went well.
The wine here is better than ours.
And I'm bringing some home.
God willing,
I will be at Kaer Morhen within the fortnight.
Keep the fives high.
W.
The queen read it twice herself by the firelight.
And then folded it small and put it inside her sleeve,
Where it stayed for the rest of the day.
Within the fortnight,
" she said.
In this mood,
Madam.
Said Brother Osric.
Packing his inks away with great care.
I should say 12 days.
Thirteen,
If the ford at Marlow is out.
We shall plan for thirteen,
" said the Queen,
And be glad on the twelfth.
She went down to the kitchens before the midday meal.
Down the spiral stairs.
And across the covered way.
Where the rain hammered loudly on the boards a foot above her head.
And the cold air smelled of wet stone and iron.
And then she opened the kitchen door and stepped from winter straight into another season entirely.
The kitchens of Kermod.
Were the warmest place in the world.
Two vast hearths.
Roared at either end.
One with a whole row of pots hanging over it.
On iron hooks.
The other with a spit long enough for an ox.
And between them,
The great room swam in heat and golden light,
And steam.
And the smells of a dozen good things at once.
Onions and butter.
Breath.
Roasting me.
Stewed Pears.
Smoke.
Cinnamon.
Breath.
Rain fell down the chimneys.
And hissed where it met the fires.
Little white whispers in all that crackling and nobody paid it any attention at all.
Old Bess ruled here.
She had been a kitchen girl when the Queen's husband's father was a boy.
And she was now a small round woman.
Of immense authority.
With forearms like a blacksmith,
And a wooden spoon that she carried as other rulers carry a scepter.
She made the Queen sit on a stool by the nearer fire,
Put a cup of hot pear and ginger in her hands without asking,
And told her everything about the feast of Saint Lucy.
There would be a soup of leeks and creams.
There would be pie from the stew-pond,
And roasted geese,
And a great pie Of pork and dried plums,
That took two men to carry.
The Queen listened to all of it.
Warm to her bones.
While the fires roared.
And the spits turned,
And the rain hissed in the chimneys,
And a cat the colour of ash Slept on a sack of flour As if winter had never been invented.
The apple-loft was next.
Because a promise to what was a promise?
He was waiting for her at the foot of the granary stair,
Hood up,
Lantern lit,
Beside him with quiet pride.
And they dashed together across the corner of the yard,
Through the downpour.
Six steps,
No more.
But the rain was so hard now it bounced And went up the wooden stairs.
Into the long,
Dim loft above the granary.
It was a beautiful thing,
The apple of And the Queen said so.
Which made what's who you.
The apus lay in their hundreds.
On slatted shelves of pale wood.
Each one set just so.
Not touching its neighbour.
Row upon row upon row into the shadows.
Russets and custards and permanes.
And the whole loft was full of their smell.
Hello,
Sweet.
Sleepy smell.
The entire months of October.
Stored under one roof.
The rain roared on the slates.
Close overhead.
What walked her down the rows with his lantern?
Turning an apple here.
Presenting an apple there.
Explaining which would keep till March.
And which till May.
And his voice and the rain.
Into the sweet dim air.
Made a kind of spell of it.
So that the Queen was almost sorry.
When they came to the end of the last row.
And it was time to go down to the hall and dine.
The Midday Meal.
Was a modest one.
For an ordinary Friday in Advent.
The household together in the great hall.
Salt-fish done cleverly by Bess.
With butter and herbs.
So that nobody minded it was saltfish Good bread.
Ale.
And stewed pears after.
The whole fire was a young tree's worth of oak.
Snapping and rushing in the huge hearth.
And the queen ate at the high table.
With the letter from the king inside her sleeve.
And outside the tall windows.
The thunder walked slowly around the valley.
Like a watchman doing his rounds.
The afternoon was for the accounts.
And two small disputes.
And both were dealt with in the solar by the fire.
With Brother Osric Cutterelbo.
And the candor's lit.
And to the day outside.
Already giving up what little light it had.
The accounts were the manor rolls of Kermont's home farms.
Columns of wheat and barley and fleeces and pigs.
The queen went down them with her finger.
While Osric read the figures.
Slowly allow.
And everything was as it should be.
The harvest had been fair.
The barns were full.
The wool had sold well at the autumn fair.
And the castle could feed itself twice over until the spring.
There is no sound.
Quite so comfortable.
As the sound of full barns being read out loud.
In a warm room.
While rain falls on the roof.
The disputes were smaller still.
The man from the river hamlet.
Held that his neighbour's geese.
Were crossing onto his land.
And eating his winter cupboard.
And the neighbor held that the geese were free spirits.
Whose movements no man could answer for.
The queen heard both men.
Where they stood.
Steaming gently before the solar fire.
Dripping on the rushes.
Bored into mumbles by the room.
And ruled that a fence would be built between the two plots,
And that both households would share the building of it.
And that the geese,
Whose opinion was not sought,
Would keep to their own side or be invited to the feast of Saint Lucy in a different capacity.
Both men went away satisfied.
Which is the most that can be asked of any judgment?
And their boots could be heard going down and down.
And down the spiral stair.
Until the rain swallowed the sound of them.
And Zen.
As promised.
There is nothing at all.
The Queen sat by the solar fire with her embroidery.
A long border of vine leaves in green and gold thread for an altar cloth.
And Mathilde sat opposite with the mending,
And stretched out between them on the warm rushes lay Bran.
The elder of the castle's two wolfhounds.
A grey mountain of a dark cloud.
Who had decided years ago that his duties lay.
Wherever the best fire was.
And who discharged those duties.
Magnificently.
He lay on his side with his great rough head on his paws.
And his ribs rose and fell.
And now and then his feet twitch.
As he ran down something splendid in a dream.
And now and then he sighed.
The lungs.
Complete.
World-ending sigh that only a very large dog in front of a very good fire can produce.
For a long time.
The only sounds with a click of cymbals.
The small whisper of drawn thread.
The dog.
The rain.
And sapphire.
The fire had burned all day.
And it reached that deep,
Subtle state.
A hot orange country of embers under the new lugs.
Crackling away.
Ticking and sighing.
Collapsing inward from time to time.
With a soft rush of sparks.
The storm chose the late afternoon to arrive properly.
The thunder that had circled the valley all day.
Came up the river at last.
And broke directly over Kaer Morhen.
Great,
Slow.
Magnificent peals of it.
That rolled around the sky.
From one end to the other.
And made the window-horn shudder gently in its lead.
And the rain rose from a steady fall.
To a torrent.
That roared on the roofs.
And seethed in the gutters and turned the world beyond the window to grey water.
Inside the soul.
Nothing changed at all.
The fire crackled.
The needles click.
Mathilde glanced up at the loudest peal.
Decided against being impressed.
And went back to remending.
There is no pleasure in the world.
Quite like sitting in a warm,
Dry room.
Inside a wall nine feet thick.
While a storm does its utmost.
And fails.
He will be riding through this somewhere.
Said Mathilde.
Meaning the king.
He will be sitting in an inn by a fire the size of ours.
Said the Queen.
Telling somebody a story they've heard before.
He has a gift for finding fires.
The thunder rolled again.
Long and unhurried.
And faded away north over the hills.
And the rain settled back.
Into its old steady drumming.
As the last of the daylight went.
Supper was at the close of the day in the great hall.
And the great hall in a winter evening.
Was Kermond at its best.
The fire in the vast hearth was built man high.
Hole logs the length of a bed.
Roaring and crackling.
And throwing its light.
Far up among the smoke-darkened beams.
Torches burned in their brackets down both long walls.
The trestles were full.
The steward.
The marshal.
The falconer.
The grooms and maids and kitchen boys.
Father Anselm brother Azurik.
What,
With his hair combed flat?
All of them loud and warm.
And glad to be in out of the rain.
Bran and the younger hound,
Fionn,
Lay at the edge of the great hearth.
In the place that was theirs by ancient rites.
Close enough to the fire that any reasonable dog would have moved back.
They ate Bess's good leek soup.
And her salt-fish fritters.
And there was ale and bread.
And a dish of those russets from the loft.
Roasted in the embers with honey.
Until their skins split.
And after the boards were cleared.
The Harper came and sat on his stool near the fire.
And played.
He played the old slow tunes.
The winter tunes.
The ones everyone in the hall had known since before they could walk.
And the talk sank gradually down.
Under the music.
Until the hall was only firelight.
And her.
Drain.
The Queen sat in her tall chair,
With her cup warming in her hands.
And watched the faces along the trestles Soften one by one.
The kitchen boy is nodding first.
Than the groom's.
Bulldozerik.
Frankly asleep.
And upright,
With the dignity of long practice.
And over it all the enormous fire.
Crackling and breathing.
And slowly.
Slowly burning down.
When the harper finished.
Nobody applauded for a moment.
The way people don't when a tune has done its work.
Then the benches scrape And good nights went around the hall.
And the household began to fold itself away.
Into the castle through the night.
The queen climbed the spiral stair Behind a servant with a candle.
Up and around.
Up and around.
As to the arrow slits.
Where the night and the rain breathed in cold and clean.
And came at last to the great bed-chamber.
At the top of the tower.
Where Edith had been one final time.
The fire was fresh built and crackling.
The bed had been passed through.
With the long-handled warming pan.
And the cause in it.
Had left the linen sheets toasted and sweet.
The shutters were fastened tight.
And on the other side of them.
The rain went on.
On into the dark.
And the thunder rumbled occasionally.
Mathilde unpinned the circlet and the veil.
And unwound the braid.
And brushed out the Queen's hair by the fire.
With the boar bristle brush A hundred slow strokes.
Where the queen sat on the stool.
In her shift.
With a fur about her shoulders.
And her eyes closed.
Neither of them spoke.
The brush whispered.
The fire crackled.
The rain drums.
Somewhere below.
The doors were being barred for the night.
One after another.
Each thought deeper and more distant than the last.
The castle.
Closing itself up.
Make it great.
Stone creature.
Settling into its bed.
Twelve days,
Said Mathilde at last.
Putting down the brush.
13 if the forward is out.
Thirteen then,
" said the Queen.
Goodnight,
Mathilde.
Good night,
Madam.
And then she was alone.
With the fire and the rain.
She said her prayers at the little Prie-Dieu in the corner.
Where a single candle burned.
Before a small painted image.
Of the virgin in a blue cloak.
And the Kando flame stood perfectly still.
And her own shadow.
Knelt huge and faithful on the wall behind her.
She prayed for the king on his muddy road.
And for the household sleeping below her.
Floor by floor.
And for the shepherds out in the hills in this weather.
And for the Abbot's carp.
Wherever they now considered home.
Before she went to the bed.
She did one last thing.
A small private custom of hers.
On stormy nights.
Crossed to the window.
Lifted the bar.
And opened the shutter the width of her hand,
The night came in at the gap.
Cold.
Wet.
Enormous.
Smelling of rain and river.
And winter hills.
And the sound of the rain leapt suddenly close and loud and silver.
Far below in the dark.
She could see the one.
Small orange square of the gatehouse fire.
Where the watchman sat warm at his post.
And beyond it.
Nothing at all.
Only the long dark.
And the falling rain.
Mile upon mile of it.
All the way to wherever the king lay sleeping.
By some innkeeper's hearth.
She let the cold touch her face for a moment.
The way one tastes something sharp.
To make the sweet that follows sweeter.
Then she drew the shutter to.
And borrowed it.
And the rain stepped back outside to its proper distance.
And the warm room closed around her.
Like a hand.
She snuffed the candle between finger and thumb.
And cross to the rushes.
And climbed into the great bed.
The sheets were warm.
The furs were heavy.
The pillows smelled faintly of lavender from the summer that was past.
And the summer that would come.
She lay on her side.
Basing the heart.
And watched the fire through half-closed eyes.
It had burned down.
To its nighttime self now.
No flames to speak of.
But still a wonderful crackling.
And a deep orange glow.
Of embers.
And one small blue gold tongue.
That rose and danced.
And vanish.
And rose again.
And the soft,
Regular crackle and tick Of the settling logs.
Like someone very old.
And very kind.
Talking quietly to themselves.
The light of it.
Breathed on the ceiling.
Brightening and dimming.
Brightening and dimming.
The rain went on.
It had been falling when she woke.
And it would be falling when she slept.
The same deep steady.
Endless drumming on the shutters.
On the sleep.
On the hills.
And the river.
On the whole dark sleeping country.
Of which she was queen.
Every field and barn and byre of it.
Shut up warm against the night.
Far below.
In the inner yard.
The watchman called midnight.
Two long notes.
And the door closed.
Was the last sound the castle made.
Let the fire take over.
An ember is settled.
The rain fell.
The thunder roll.
And in the great bed.
At the top of the round tower.
Under three blankets.
And a coverlet of fur.
With a letter folded small upon the chest beside her.
The Queen.
Of Keramon.
Slept.
