• It was a bleak morning in Rothdown. The damp, smothering blanket of winter had settled heavily over the land, turning dirt to mud and smiles to frowns. People were few and far between, preferring to stay indoors, out of the grizzling rain.

    The sky was a miserable shade of grey, heavy clouds destroying the few feeble rays of sun desperately trying to break through. A chill wind swept black streamers aimlessly around deserted courtyards and set newly-painted black shutters crashing into the walls. The sound was harsh and loud in the quiet capital.

    The pure poverty of the slums gave way to the outer city, poor and desolate. The outer city faded slowly into the richer districts, but the atmosphere was no different. The same dark melancholy had descended over the whole town.

    Higher up, the castle loomed darkly out from the cliffs, its size merely amplifying the morose, mournful silence. Its tiny oval windows looked like tears on the face of some giant, despairing stone monster.

    On the main road into the city, a tired old nag trudged slowly through thick grey mud. The dark haze of rain surrounded her and her tall, silent rider. Slowly, too slowly, they made their way towards the city. Both had come a long way – nearly a hundred miles since the afternoon before – and both were tired, hungry and dirty.

    The rider wore a thin hooded cloak that shadowed his face. He kept it wrapped around him, in a futile attempt to keep out the cold and the rain. When he saw the town in the distance, he nudged his horse into a reluctant trot. She neighed reproachfully at him, and he pacified her with his last handful of oats and a stroke of her long, knotted mane.

    If anyone was watching, they would have noticed the way that the horse bore slightly to the right for no apparent reason. They would also have noticed the way that the rider held himself – stiff and upright, leaning gently to the right, with his left arm held loosely at his side rather than holding onto the reins.

    But there was no-one watching. As the horse and rider made their way towards the city, the citizens were slowly beginning to gather in doorways and in squares along the main road that ran from the iron gates of the castle to the main gates of the city. They lined up silently; tight, sad expressions on their pinched, white faces.

    They waited patiently for ten minutes or more. The only communication was the occasional hand being held, or a comforting pat on the shoulder. There was no sound, no movement amongst the black-clad, sodden mourners.

    Finally, the castle gates opened. A tall, sombre looking man walked slowly out, at the head of the procession. Behind him followed a pair of magnificent black stallions, bridled in gold and black leather and decorated with plumes of long black feathers.

    The horses pulled a long, open carriage – almost like an extremely ornate wagon – on which was placed a beautifully polished plain mahogany coffin. On top of the coffin was a single pure white lily.

    The coffin was flanked and followed by members of the royal family, then the numerous counts, viscounts, lords and ladies of the realm. At a modest distance behind them followed the household; the servants, housekeepers, cooks, butlers, stable hands and errand boys – all the ordinary people it took to keep a royal family comfortable.

    The procession made its way slowly down through the main street. The silence was broken by the sound of horses’ hooves on stones, and the gasps and sobs of the countless mourners. As the entourage passed, those watching joined at the back, until the whole city was following. Out through the main gates of the city they went, slow and quiet, unbelieving and anguished.

    At the gates the majority were left behind, leaving just the royal family to complete the ceremony. They marched slowly on through the cold and rain and mud for a long, miserable mile. At the end of that mile they met a solitary rider on a tired old nag coming the other way. The rider was not looking where he was going, and the man at the head of the procession had to call out to him to stop.

    The rider looked up for a brief moment, his movements stiff and measured. He called his horse to a stop and dismounted, then stood still at the side of the road to wait for the procession to pass. He kept his head down, his hood shadowing his face. As they began to move again, the rider risked looking up, his curiosity getting the better of him.

    The first thing he noticed was the pair of beautiful black stallions. He surmised that some wealthy baron or such had died, and wondered who it was.

    The second thing he noticed was the face of his sister-in-law, Anne. He started, realising that it must have been a member of the royal family - his family - that had died. He looked wildly around, his brain working overtime trying to guess who was missing from the group.

    The third thing he noticed was the single white lily laid on top of the coffin. A strangled, disbelieving cry escaped from his lips, and ran to the startled family. Urgently he shook them, asking them to tell him it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true.

    Their red-eyed, miserable faces told him what he didn’t want to hear. His wife was dead.

    He let out a piercing, heart-wrenching sob and sank to his knees in the mud. His cries echoed out over the fields, startling birds into flight. Tears poured down over his wretched, grimy face making dirty streaks down each cheek.

    His family tried to pull him up, to help him, to console him, but he was beyond hearing them, beyond seeing them. His ears were filled with her beautiful voice; his eyes saw only her beautiful face. Gone, she was gone.

    Eventually, people realised that they could do nothing for Nathaniel. He could not be helped. The shock and grief of losing his love had lost him to them. He was left to himself, broken and muddy, while they buried his heart in a smooth mahogany coffin.