The following evening, the royal palace sparkled like a chandelier about to explode. Musicians tuned their lutes, nobles adjusted their ruffled sleeves, and the smell of roasted pheasant filled the air.
It was the grand Royal Banquet, held in honor of one very special guest—
Bessy the Benevolent, the Sacred Cow of Verdelune.
Tomlin adjusted his borrowed tunic for the fifth time. He looked like a hay bale trying to pass for nobility.
"Remind me," he whispered, "why are we doing this again?"
"Because," Bessy said, strutting beside him in a custom velvet cloak, "when royalty invites you to dinner, you don't say no. You say moo."
"Please, please don't moo at the king."
"No promises."
The Great Hall was a dazzling sea of gold, silk, and self-importance. Nobles whispered, eyes wide, as the legendary talking cow entered.
"Look! The oracle of the fields!"
"I heard she predicted a rainstorm!"
"My cousin swears her milk healed his warts!"
Tomlin tried to shrink into invisibility, but Bessy basked in the attention like a sunbathing goddess.
King Eldred rose from his throne. "Welcome, dear guests! Tonight, we feast in honor of our divine advisor, Bessy the Benevolent!"
The crowd applauded.
Tomlin prayed for spontaneous combustion.
Dinner began.
Platters of fruit, roasted meats, and pastries filled the table.
A silver bowl of fresh milk sat proudly in front of Bessy.
She sniffed it, frowned, and turned to Tomlin.
"This milk is cow milk."
He froze. "Well, yes. What else would it—oh no."
Bessy's eye twitched.
"They served me my own kind?!"
"Please keep your voice down," Tomlin whispered desperately.
Too late.
"WHAT BARBARIAN DARES SERVE COW TO A COW?!"
The hall went dead silent.
The nobles looked horrified. The servants dropped trays. The King turned pale.
Tomlin jumped up, waving his hands. "It's—it's symbolic milk! Not real milk! Decorative! Totally non-dairy!"
"Oh, really?" Bessy narrowed her eyes.
"Yes!" Tomlin grabbed the bowl, took a sip, and immediately regretted it.
"It's, uh… slightly warm marble water!"
The King blinked. "Marble… water?"
Tomlin smiled painfully. "A farmer's specialty."
An awkward silence stretched for what felt like hours. Then, the King coughed politely.
"Ah! What a curious custom. Let us toast to… marble water!"
The nobles, eager to save face, lifted their glasses.
"To marble water!"
Tomlin sat down, sweating bullets.
Bessy leaned in.
"You're terrible at lying."
"Saved your hide, didn't I?"
"Hmph. I'll allow it."
The banquet continued—somehow—even improving once Bessy began "blessing" dishes.
"This one is too salty—may the cook find balance in life."
"This pastry is divine; I accept it as tribute."
"Whoever made this soup needs divine guidance."
The nobles scribbled notes like disciples.
Tomlin just ate in quiet despair.
When dessert arrived—a giant pudding shaped like a cow—Tomlin nearly choked.
Bessy stared at it in outrage.
"Are they mocking me?"
The King smiled nervously. "It's a… tribute pudding."
"I'll allow it," Bessy decided, and began eating with alarming enthusiasm. "Mmm. Delicious. Almost forgives the milk incident."
Tomlin sighed in relief.
Until the pudding wobbled and collapsed across the table, splattering cream all over the King's robe.
Everyone froze.
Tomlin stood. "I can explain."
Bessy licked her lips.
"He did it."
Tomlin's jaw dropped. "WHAT?!"
"Sorry, Druid. I'm divine, remember? Can't have people thinking I caused a pudding disaster."
The King blinked, then burst into laughter.
"Ah! Even the Holy Cow has humor! Delightful!"
The hall joined in, laughing and clapping.
Tomlin sat down, covered in pudding and humiliation.
Bessy grinned smugly.
"See? You're a hit."
Later that night, as they walked back to their chambers, Tomlin groaned. "One day, Bessy. One day I'll have a normal, quiet life again."
"Impossible. You're famous now."
"I never asked to be famous."
"You didn't have to. Fame mooed its way to you."
Tomlin sighed. "You're insufferable."
"And you love me for it."
He didn't answer—but he smiled.
The next morning, a knock came at Tomlin's door.
Standing there was a young knight in silver armor—tall, serious, and clearly uncomfortable with the situation.
"Sir Tomlin," the knight said stiffly. "His Majesty requests that you and Lady Bessy accompany me to the training grounds."
Tomlin blinked. "Why? Are we being arrested?"
"Probably promoted," Bessy said, chewing on a bouquet.
The knight sighed. "No. The King believes the Holy Cow might… bless our soldiers."
Tomlin groaned. "Of course he does."
At the training field, dozens of soldiers stood in neat rows, armor gleaming. The General barked orders while trying not to stare at Bessy.
"Attention, men! The divine beast will now inspire your spirits!"
"Do I have to give a speech?" Bessy asked.
Tomlin shrugged. "Apparently."
She stepped forward, tail swishing proudly.
"Listen up, shiny humans! Strength comes not from muscles, but from belief—belief that you can lift heavier things than the person next to you!"
The soldiers blinked.
"And if you fall in battle," she added solemnly, "make sure you do it dramatically. It boosts morale."
A few soldiers nodded thoughtfully. One even saluted.
The General whispered to Tomlin, "She's… good."
Tomlin sighed. "Please don't encourage her."
After the training, the knight approached shyly. "If it pleases the Holy Cow… might I request a personal blessing?"
"Of course," Bessy said graciously. "May your sword stay sharp, your armor un-dented, and your horse less judgmental."
The knight smiled—an honest, rare smile. "Thank you. I shall serve with honor."
As he walked away, Tomlin noticed something strange—people around the castle were starting to believe.
Maybe too much.
That night, Tomlin sat by the window, watching torchlights flicker in the courtyard.
"They actually think you're divine," he murmured.
"Maybe I am," Bessy said softly. "Who's to say the gods don't have a sense of humor?"
Tomlin chuckled. "If they do, they're laughing at me."
"No," Bessy said with a little smile, "they're laughing with you."
And for once, Tomlin couldn't argue with that.