Grimus

The bishop, a chubby, grey-haired fellow, strode across the castle courtyard and swung the stable doors open.

“Bring the prince’s horse outside, Grimus. They’re about to leave!”

“At once, Your Excellency,” the squire replied.

Grimus peeked outside. Guards were mounting their horses in the yard. He brushed the stallion’s neck, then he led it past the bishop.

“Don’t forget your duty to God and to the queen.”

“I won’t, Your Excellency.”

Mounting his own horse, Grimus rode towards the group, guiding the stallion behind him.

“Good day, my lords,” Grimus bowed as he passed the prince’s guards. Reaching the royal steps, he dismounted and waited for the prince, as his new duty required.

 

 

Duty was indeed what Grimus did best. He was an hardworking squire who enjoyed grooming and saddling horses. “No one is better than Grimus,” the stable-master often said. 

Not that Grimus was his real name, but it had stuck with him since childhood. His sunken cheeks, shifty eyes and especially his distorted mouth, which made his smile look more like a snarl, or grimace, had given him the name. Through hard work, he’d risen up the ranks till he’d become a squire. But royal squires were teenage boys, not balding thirty-year-olds like him. So, after a few years, the castle dismissed him and he returned home to help his poor father raise goats. So, imagine his surprise when Bishop Sorenson suddenly summoned him back to serve Prince Eric, the heir to the throne. Grimus almost fell into the goat pen in joy!

 

 

“Prince Eric is young and prone to getting himself in trouble,” the bishop had said. “The queen needs someone trustworthy to watch him and his guards: Most importantly, someone to report their every movement to me.”

“You mean a spy?” Grimus had asked.

“I mean someone to report everything to me,” the bishop nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Can we trust you, Grimus?”

“Yes, your Excellency. Yes Sir! I will not let you down. I will not let Her Majesty down. You can count on me, Your Excellency.”

“Good!”

And that was it.

Although spying on the prince wasn’t as pleasant as grooming warhorses, it rescued him from the dreary goat farm he’d begun to hate. He was determined to do his duty for the queen.

As for the prince? Grimus didn’t like him. The princeling was a spoiled, irresponsible brat who preferred frolicking and adventure more than the royal court – totally unfit to rule, Grimus thought. Perhaps he could teach the youngster a thing or two about being responsible. Hah! Perhaps he’d be so useful, when the prince became king; he’d be made prime minister! Grimus smiled at the thought of that. Minister Grimus! That would be an achievement! The people in his village would look up to him then, chant his name, name their children after him, perhaps even build a statue…

“Why are you smiling Grimus? Please stop! You’re scaring the horses.”

The guards burst out laughing. Grimus frowned.

“His Highness is coming out,” someone said, and the laughter ceased. 

Just then, Prince Eric appeared. He was young and handsome, barely seventeen, with long golden hair, piercing eyes and a confident smile which became an angry scowl when he saw his new squire. Grimus knelt till the prince mounted the stallion.

“Let’s go!” the prince said.

Within moments the group of horsemen galloped out through the castle gates.