"The Royal Summons" 👑🐮
Two days later, Tomlin's life went from bad to royally disastrous—like upgrading from a leaky barn roof to a full-blown lightning strike on the haystack.
A fancy-looking carriage rolled into Cloverhill just after breakfast, its white horses prancing with the smug grace of animals who'd never stepped in manure. The wheels gleamed with gold trim that caught the morning sun and flung it back in dazzling sparks, while liveried guards in polished armor stood so stiffly they looked like they'd faint dead away if a speck of honest dirt dared touch their boots. The villagers dropped pitchforks, baskets, and half-eaten apples to gawk, mouths open wide enough to catch the swirling dust kicked up by the wheels.
The coach rumbled to a halt in front of Tomlin's humble gate with a creak of expensive leather and a snort from horses that clearly considered his farm beneath them. Out stepped a tall knight in silver armor so shiny it could double as a mirror, his expression pinched like he'd just bitten into a lemon disguised as an apple—and he'd rather be anywhere else, preferably polishing swords in a nice, cow-free armory.
He unrolled a parchment scroll with a dramatic snap that echoed across the yard, cleared his throat like a trumpet warming up, and announced in a voice trained to carry over battlefields:
"By royal decree of His Majesty, King Eldred the Mildly Confused, Farmer Tomlin Hayfield is hereby summoned to the capital, along with his… divine companion, the Cow of Prophecy."
Tomlin blinked so hard his eyes watered.
Bessy, lounging in a patch of sunshine-dappled clover, let out a delicate, satisfied burp that smelled faintly of yesterday's festival apple pie.
The knight frowned deeply enough to carve new wrinkles. "You are Tomlin Hayfield, yes?"
Tomlin nodded weakly, feeling his knees wobble like fresh custard. "I… suppose I am. Though I was perfectly happy being plain old Tomlin five minutes ago."
"And this is the Holy Cow?"
"The one and only," Bessy replied brightly, flicking her tail and sending a ribbon fluttering like a victory flag. "Do I get my own royal stable with silk bedding, or perhaps a small throne? Something in velvet would be divine."
The knight froze mid-bow, his armor creaking like an old gate. His face cycled through several shades of red before settling on stunned parchment-white. "It speaks."
"It complains," Tomlin muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples.
An hour later—after frantic packing of one spare tunic, a comb Bessy insisted on ("presentation matters"), and a wheel of cheese "for the road"—Tomlin found himself bouncing along in the plush carriage, velvet seats softer than anything he'd ever sat on, beside a smug, flower-adorned cow who kept admiring her reflection in the polished brass fittings.
"You could at least act nervous," he grumbled, clutching the armrest as the carriage swayed over a bump.
"Why?" Bessy replied, stretching luxuriously and leaving a faint scent of hay and wildflowers in the perfumed interior. "I'm about to meet a king. Finally, someone who understands my level of sophistication. Royalty recognizes royalty."
Tomlin groaned, the sound lost amid the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves and the jingle of harness bells. "He's going to execute me. Or at least tax me into oblivion."
"Oh please," she scoffed. "You think anyone would dare harm the Holy Cow? You're practically untouchable by association. Like a sacred barnacle."
Tomlin stared out the window at the passing countryside—rolling hills fragrant with late-summer blooms. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Correct," she said with a contented sigh. "Immensely."
By the time they reached Verdelune City at golden-hour sunset, the streets were lined with crowds thicker than harvest festival cider foam. Children threw armfuls of roses and daisies that rained down in sweet-scented clouds. Merchants shouted blessings (and hawked souvenirs). Someone had already set up a cart selling "Sacred Cow Milk"—just regular milk with edible gold sparkles swirled in, glittering suspiciously in the torchlight.
Tomlin wanted to melt into the velvet cushions and disappear forever.
They were escorted through the castle gates—massive iron-bound doors that boomed shut behind them—into halls of cool marble that echoed every footstep and smelled faintly of beeswax polish, expensive perfume, and the lingering tang of political disappointment.
At the end of a throne room longer than Tomlin's entire wheat field sat King Eldred the Mildly Confused: a round-faced monarch with kind, slightly bewildered eyes, a beard trimmed to perfection, and a crown that kept slipping forward like it, too, was having second thoughts.
"Ah! The man and his miraculous cow!" the King exclaimed, clapping pudgy hands together with genuine delight. "Splendid! We've heard… quite a lot about you. Mostly in panicked letters from tax collectors."
Tomlin bowed so awkwardly his forehead nearly kissed the plush royal carpet. "Your Majesty, I assure you, it's all a terrible misunderstanding involving jam and bad hay—"
"Don't listen to him," Bessy interrupted smoothly, stepping forward with the confidence of a seasoned courtier. "He's modest to a fault. I'm divine, he's my devoted handler, and we accept offerings in fresh bread, apple pie, and perhaps a small duchy."
The King blinked rapidly.
The court—silk-clad nobles with powdered wigs and perfumed handkerchiefs—gasped in perfect, synchronized horror.
The royal scribe, quill poised mid-air, turned the color of curdled milk and fainted with a soft, dramatic thud onto his inkwell.
"By the stars above…" the King whispered, leaning forward so eagerly his crown slid another inch. "It truly speaks. And with excellent diction!"
Tomlin tried to interject, voice cracking like dry straw. "Actually, Your Majesty—"
"And," Bessy continued undeterred, batting her lashes at the throne, "I've come bearing wisdom for your prosperous kingdom: lower the taxes on small farmers, fund the arts generously—perhaps a royal theater troupe?—and for heaven's sake, give your palace cooks a raise. Their pastries are good, but they could be legendary with proper motivation."
The King stared at her for a long, breathless moment, the hall silent except for the faint rustle of silk and the scribe's unconscious snoring.
Then, slowly, a delighted grin spread across his round face. He began to clap—first alone, then joined by hesitant courtiers until the throne room thundered with applause.
"Marvelous! A talking cow and a reformer! The gods truly bless us with both entertainment and policy advice!"
Tomlin groaned quietly, slumping in defeat. "Here we go again…"
That night, Tomlin and Bessy were installed in lavish guest quarters. His room boasted silk sheets that whispered against the skin, a four-poster bed big enough for a family of goats, and more gold trim than sense. Bessy's adjoining "stable suite" featured a velvet cushion the size of a small meadow and a wide window overlooking the royal gardens, fragrant with night-blooming jasmine.
"I could get used to this," Bessy said blissfully, leaning out to munch a mouthful of prize roses from a royal bush, petals soft and dewy on her tongue. "These are divine. Literally."
"Don't," Tomlin warned from the doorway, still in his travel-stained tunic amid all the opulence. "The moment they realize you're just… you—sarcastic, pie-obsessed, and occasionally gassy—we'll be tossed into the dungeon. Or worse, taxed double."
"You underestimate my charm," she replied with a wide, toothy cow grin, bits of rose stuck adorably in her teeth. "By tomorrow, I'll be running the place. Royal Advisor Bessy has a nice ring to it."
Tomlin sighed deeply, flopping onto the bed and staring at the embroidered canopy overhead.
"By tomorrow," he muttered to the silent, gilded ceiling, "I'll be fleeing the country. Possibly disguised as a turnip."
Somewhere down the hall, a lute began playing a new tune suspiciously titled "Ode to the Sacred Moo."
And despite everything, Tomlin's lips twitched into the tiniest, most reluctant smile
"The Cow and the Council" 🏰🐄
The next morning, Tomlin was dragged—half-dressed in a silk nightshirt that kept slipping off one shoulder, one boot on, hair sticking up like an angry hedgehog—into the royal council chamber by two overly enthusiastic pages who smelled of rosewater and determination.
Bessy followed behind at a leisurely amble, humming a jaunty little tune that sounded suspiciously like the festival hymn but with extra swagger. Her hooves clicked against the polished marble floors in a rhythmic echo that sounded less like footsteps and more like royalty's enthusiastic applause.
The council chamber was a grand affair: a long table of dark oak so glossy it reflected the vaulted ceiling's gilded frescoes, crystal goblets sparkling in the morning light that streamed through stained-glass windows depicting heroic kings and suspiciously well-fed cattle. The air carried the rich scents of beeswax candles, fresh parchment, and the faint, lingering perfume of last night's noble intrigue.
Around the table sat the Royal Council, each member looking as though they'd been carved from different materials:
- The High Priest, draped in robes heavy with gold embroidery, clutching a staff topped with a sunburst that caught the light like a small, judgmental star.
- The Treasurer, a thin man whose spectacles glinted like sharpened coins, fingers stained with ink and forever tapping calculations on the table.
- The General, broad-shouldered and scarred, armor polished to a mirror finish that reflected his own perpetual frown.
- And several nobles in velvet doublets and towering feathered hats who looked mildly allergic to common sense, fresh air, and anything that didn't come with a title.
King Eldred sat at the head, beaming nervously, his oversized crown still threatening to slide forward as he waved them in.
"Ah, council members! Our esteemed guests have arrived. The Holy Cow has graciously agreed to share her divine wisdom with us today!"
Tomlin opened his mouth to protest—something along the lines of "She's not holy, she's just opinionated and gassy"—but Bessy had already taken the floor. Literally. She planted herself at the foot of the table with the confidence of someone who'd been waiting for this moment her entire bovine life.
"Good morning, esteemed fancy-hatted humans," she began, voice warm and resonant, carrying effortlessly over the rustle of silk and the clink of goblets. "Lovely chamber. Excellent acoustics. Let's begin with agriculture, shall we?"
The Treasurer squinted over his spectacles, quill already scratching. "You… a cow… have thoughts on taxation policy?"
"Naturally," Bessy replied, tilting her head so the morning light caught the remaining festival ribbons in her tail, making them shimmer like victory banners. "First order of business: stop taxing cows for merely existing. It's discriminatory, demoralizing, and frankly rude. We produce milk, fertilizer, and moral support. That should count for something."
The High Priest gasped so sharply his sunburst staff wobbled, sending little rainbows dancing across the table. "Blasphemy! Only the gods may decree tax exemptions!"
"Correction," Bessy said smoothly, "policy reform. With a side of common sense. You're welcome."
The General leaned forward, armored elbows thudding onto the oak like distant thunder. "And what, oh bovine oracle, are your thoughts on defense?"
"Simple," Bessy said, casually licking one hoof with the air of a connoisseur tasting fine wine. "Feed your soldiers better—none of this hardtack nonsense. A full belly fights harder. Also, make their armor shinier. Nothing boosts morale like being able to see your own heroic reflection mid-battle."
The General blinked, scratched his scarred chin, then nodded slowly—almost reluctantly—like a man discovering his horse had better tactical sense than his lieutenants. "...That actually makes sense. Disturbingly good sense."
Tomlin, standing awkwardly behind Bessy in his half-buttoned tunic, slapped a hand to his forehead with an audible thwack. "You're encouraging her! All of you!"
"Silence, Druid," Bessy said without even glancing back, tail swishing like a dismissive royal fan. "I'm working. Important national business. You just stand there and look supportive."
King Eldred clapped his pudgy hands together with a sound like muffled cymbals, eyes shining with delight. "Splendid! Utterly splendid! From this day forth, Bessy the Benevolent shall serve as Royal Advisor of Agricultural Affairs—and Morale, and Possibly Catering!"
Tomlin's jaw dropped so low it nearly scraped the priceless carpet. "She's what!?"
"You heard the man," Bessy said smugly, turning to give Tomlin a broad, toothy grin that somehow managed to look both triumphant and adorable. "Looks like we're moving up in the world, Druid. Permanent palace residency. I'm thinking a corner office with southern exposure."
That night, Tomlin sat on the wide stone windowsill of his absurdly luxurious chamber, staring out at the moonlit city below—rooftops silvered by moonlight, distant torchlight flickering like fireflies, the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine drifting up from the gardens.
His life, once simple and peaceful—filled with the honest smells of earth and hay, the rhythm of seasons, and the occasional chicken chase—now involved royal councils, sweeping political reforms, and a cow who dispensed economic advice between bites of royal roses.
"You're quiet tonight," Bessy said softly from her enormous velvet cushion, voice gentler than usual, almost thoughtful.
Tomlin rested his chin on his knees. "Just wondering how this all happened. One minute I'm milking a cow, the next I'm watching her rewrite tax law."
"You found me. I found you," she replied, the ribbons in her tail rustling as she shifted. "The rest is history. Or destiny. Or extremely good luck. Take your pick."
Tomlin smiled despite himself, a small, reluctant curve of the lips that felt like surrender. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"And yet, here we are," she said, sounding almost fond.
They sat in companionable silence, the gentle night wind rustling through the gauzy curtains, carrying the distant murmur of the city and the soft hoot of an owl who clearly had no idea what it was missing.
Then Bessy added, with perfect timing,
"Oh, and tomorrow, we're attending a royal banquet in my honor. I expect a tiara. Something tasteful—emeralds, perhaps. To match my eyes."
Tomlin groaned, the sound echoing dramatically off the vaulted ceiling as he flopped backward onto the silk sheets.
"Of course you do."