"The Queen's Secret Request" 👑🌙🐮
Tomlin had finally gotten used to waking up in a feather bed so plush it felt like sleeping on a cloud that had eaten too many pastries. He even stopped flinching when servants bowed deeply and called him "Your Reverence" while offering silver trays of breakfast that didn't involve a single turnip.
But peace never lasted long when Bessy was involved—peace around her was about as durable as a biscuit in a rainstorm.
Just after dawn, when the first pale light filtered through gauzy curtains and the distant scent of fresh-baked honey rolls wafted from the kitchens, a soft but urgent knock came at his door.
Tomlin opened it to find a young palace maid, pale as moonlight on fresh milk, wringing her hands nervously.
"Sir Tomlin… Her Majesty requests your presence. Privately. In her solar."
Tomlin blinked, still foggy with sleep. "The Queen?"
The maid glanced both ways down the empty corridor, then whispered, "And… she insists you bring the cow."
Of course she did.
They were led through silent marble corridors that echoed with every footstep, lined with ancient tapestries depicting heroic battles and suspiciously plump unicorns. Guards in gleaming helmets stood like statues, pretending not to stare while clearly failing—eyes tracking Bessy with the intensity of cats watching a particularly interesting bird.
Bessy trotted casually beside Tomlin, humming a jaunty little tune that sounded suspiciously like the pudding tribute song from the banquet. Her hooves clopped rhythmically against the cool stone, and the faint scent of royal roses still clung to her coat from yesterday's garden raid.
"I told you we'd end up in royal affairs," she said smugly, tail swishing like a metronome. "I'm irresistible. Like premium clover."
Tomlin sighed, tugging at his hastily thrown-on tunic. "One day, your mouth is going to start a war. Or at least an international incident involving custard."
"And your face will negotiate peace with awkward apologies and pudding stains," she replied cheerfully. "We're a team. The dream team. The moo-velous duo."
The Queen's private chambers were nothing like the grand throne room—no overwhelming gold, no pompous trumpets—just quiet, sun-dappled elegance. Ivy curled playfully around the open balcony like green ribbon, pale silk curtains billowed gently in the morning breeze carrying hints of jasmine and dew-kissed grass, and soft rugs muffled every sound.
Queen Elara of Verdelune stood by the window, dressed in simple linen the color of fresh cream. She turned as they entered, her expression warm but weary, faint shadows under eyes that had seen too many sleepless nights.
"Thank you for coming," she said softly, voice like wind through leaves. "I needed to speak without the court's… endless noise."
Tomlin bowed awkwardly, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Your Majesty. I, uh, hope this isn't about the pudding incident. Or the marble water. Or the dramatic battle falls."
A faint, genuine smile ghosted across her lips—the kind that reached her eyes like sunrise. "No, Farmer Tomlin. Though that story has already reached three neighboring kingdoms, complete with illustrations."
"Excellent," Bessy said proudly, lifting her chin. "Publicity is key to influence. I'm considering branded merchandise—little cow figurines that say witty things when you squeeze them."
The Queen's smile deepened, soft and fond. "Indeed." She motioned gracefully for them to sit—Tomlin in a cushioned chair that sighed luxuriously beneath him, Bessy on a thick velvet rug the color of midnight that she immediately claimed by flopping onto it with a satisfied moo-sigh. "Mine now. Very plush. Ten out of ten."
After a long pause filled only with the distant chirp of garden birds, the Queen spoke again, her tone softer than the silk curtains.
"Tell me truthfully, Farmer… is your cow truly divine?"
Tomlin hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your Majesty, with all respect, I'm not entirely sure what she is. Loud? Definitely. Opinionated? Absolutely. Holy? Debatable. Mostly she critiques my milking technique."
"Rude," Bessy muttered, flicking an ear.
Queen Elara folded her hands, gaze steady. "I suspected as much."
She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You see… I have a secret. My son, the Crown Prince, has not spoken a single word in two years."
Tomlin blinked. "Oh."
"Is he shy or broken?" Bessy asked bluntly, tilting her head like a curious calf.
The Queen sighed, a small, tired sound. "Both, perhaps. After his father's long illness, he withdrew from everyone—priests, doctors, tutors, even me. He spends his days sketching by the pond, silent as a shadow."
She looked directly at Bessy, hope flickering in her eyes like candlelight. "Yet when I heard of a creature who speaks wisdom—real wisdom, not court flattery—I wondered… perhaps the gods sent you for him."
Tomlin frowned gently. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, she mostly gives unsolicited life advice, hay quality reports, and occasional demands for jam."
"And yet," Bessy interrupted calmly, standing with surprising grace, "I accept the challenge. Lead the way."
Tomlin turned to her, mouth open. "Bessy, this isn't a—"
"Shh, Druid," she said firmly, nudging him with her warm nose. "A child in need outranks your anxiety. And my snack schedule."
Moments later, they were escorted to the royal garden—a hidden, quiet paradise where sunlight dappled through ancient oaks, the air hummed with bees drunk on lavender, and a small pond sparkled like scattered sapphires. The young prince sat cross-legged on a stone bench, sketching silently on a pad, his small frame pale and solemn, maybe twelve years old, with dark hair falling over eyes far too old for his age.
Bessy walked right up to him, hooves soft on the mossy path, and peered over his shoulder.
"Nice drawing," she said gently, voice warm as fresh milk. "But your ducks look depressed. Give them bigger smiles and maybe party hats."
The boy froze. His pencil clattered to the stones. Slowly, he turned to face her—eyes widening like full moons, lips parting in silent shock.
Bessy tilted her head kindly.
"Don't worry, kid. I'm real. Most people don't believe their first talking cow either. Takes a minute. Breathe."
The boy's expression shifted—first disbelief, then wonder… then something Tomlin hadn't expected: the tiniest, trembling smile, like dawn breaking through clouds.
Hours passed in the golden garden. Bessy told ridiculous stories about "herds with attitude" who formed protest marches for better grazing, sang horribly off-key songs about adventurous calves (complete with dramatic moos), and made the boy laugh so hard he nearly toppled into the pond while clutching his sides.
From the ivy-framed balcony above, Queen Elara watched, one hand pressed to her mouth, tears glimmering like dew in her eyes.
And Tomlin… Tomlin just stood there beneath a flowering arbor, quietly amazed, breathing in the sweet scent of blooming roses and watching the miracle unfold.
For once, Bessy wasn't showing off. She wasn't sarcastic or demanding pie. She was simply, genuinely kind—like a big, warm, slightly smelly blanket of comfort.
That evening, as the sun bled into the horizon in streaks of peach and rose, painting the sky like spilled royal jam, the Queen approached them again on the garden path, her steps light for the first time.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "He hasn't smiled—really smiled—like that since his father fell ill. He even said 'thank you' to the maid who brought his supper."
Tomlin rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warm. "Glad we could help, Your Majesty. Mostly her, really. I just… stood there looking supportive."
Bessy bowed her head as regally as a cow possibly could—surprisingly graceful, ribbons fluttering.
"Children need laughter more than miracles," she said simply.
The Queen smiled, soft and radiant. "Then perhaps laughter is the miracle."
As they walked back to their quarters through corridors now lit by flickering lanterns that smelled of beeswax and mystery, Tomlin glanced sideways at Bessy, genuinely curious.
"Why did you help him? You usually can't stand humans. You call them 'fancy-hatted disasters' on a good day."
Bessy didn't answer immediately. The only sounds were their footsteps and the distant hoot of a palace owl.
"He didn't ask for anything," she said finally, voice softer than the evening breeze. "He just needed someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't expect him to be a perfect prince. Reminded me of a lonely calf I once knew—standing apart from the herd, watching the world go by."
Tomlin blinked, throat oddly tight. "You… were lonely?"
"Once," she admitted. Then her familiar grin flashed suddenly in the lantern light. "Then I found an idiot farmer who talks too much, trips over rakes, and brings me questionable hay."
He chuckled, the sound warm and fond. "Lucky me."
"Luckiest human alive," she corrected smugly, nudging him again. "Don't you forget it."
That night, as the palace settled into hushed silence and moonlight spilled silver across the gardens, a new rumor began spreading among the whispering servants like wildfire through dry grass:
"The Sacred Cow healed the Prince's heart!"
By morning, it would ripple through the entire kingdom—carried on excited voices, bakery gossip, and children's gleeful retellings.
And by the next day, it would cross borders, growing with every telling—until the whole world knew that somewhere, a talking cow had performed the quietest, kindest miracle of all
"The Pilgrims of the Moo" 🚶♂️🐄
The next week began with chaos—again, but this time the kind that smelled like a traveling market crossed with a very enthusiastic barn.
It started just after breakfast, when the distant clamor of voices, cart wheels, and enthusiastic goats drifted up from the city gates like an approaching thunderstorm made of people. By mid-morning, dozens—then hundreds—of pilgrims had arrived at the castle walls: peasants in patched tunics carrying bundles of wildflowers that perfumed the air with sweet clover and lavender, merchants with jingling packs of bread loaves still warm from roadside ovens, even traveling knights in dented but polished armor who looked mildly embarrassed to be there.
All of them shouting the same thing in a rising, joyous chorus that echoed off the stone walls:
"We've come to see the Holy Cow! Bless us, Sacred Bessy!"
Tomlin, halfway through a bowl of honeyed porridge that tasted suspiciously like luxury he didn't deserve, nearly dropped it on his silk-slippered feet. "You've got to be kidding me."
Bessy ambled to the wide chamber window, ribbons in her tail fluttering in the breeze that carried hints of woodsmoke, fresh hay wagons, and excited sweat. She peered down at the colorful throng milling in the courtyard below.
"Oho," she said, eyes sparkling with delight, "looks like we've got fans. Dedicated ones. With pitchforks and everything."
"Fans?" Tomlin squeaked, joining her and staring at the sea of upturned faces. "They're pilgrims! They've walked miles! Some are crying!"
"Same thing," Bessy replied airily, "just less merchandise. Though I do see potential for souvenir horns."
By noon, the castle courtyard had transformed into a bustling festival ground that smelled gloriously of baked goods, crushed grass, and unwashed devotion. People carried offerings in hopeful arms: armfuls of daisies and sunflowers that bobbed like a floral parade, clay jugs of fresh milk (the irony apparently lost on everyone), crusty loaves dotted with rosemary, and one extremely confused chicken tucked under a farmer's arm like a feathered handbag.
Tomlin tried to reason with the harried guards at the inner gate, waving his arms like a windmill losing its mind. "You can't just let everyone in! It's a security nightmare! Someone could smuggle in bad cheese!"
"The King ordered it open to all," the captain replied stoically, though his mustache twitched with barely contained panic. "He says it's… good for morale. And the royal coffers."
"And tourism," Bessy added proudly from behind Tomlin, where she'd already begun greeting early arrivals with regal nose boops. "Look at the economic boom I've created. You're welcome, kingdom."
Tomlin groaned so loudly it startled a nearby pigeon. "You've turned religion into a theme attraction. Next you'll be charging admission and selling blessed keychains."
"I prefer the term 'spiritual movement,'" she corrected, accepting a particularly fragrant loaf with dainty nibbles. "With optional donations."
As the afternoon wore on, Bessy held impromptu court from a makeshift dais of hay bales (quickly erected by enthusiastic squires), dispensing "blessings" that were equal parts sarcastic advice and affectionate nose boops.
"May your crops grow tall and your in-laws stay short."
"Bless you—now go easy on the salt, your heart will thank you."
One pilgrim received a solemn hoof-tap and the wisdom: "Always check the hay for thistles before complaining."
Tomlin's head spun faster than a windmill in a gale, the courtyard a blur of laughter, hymns sung slightly off-key, and the constant rustle of offerings being piled higher.
Then came the bards—three of them, with lutes slung over colorful cloaks, launching into badly rhymed but passionately sung ballads about "The Cow Who Spoke and Saved a Kingdom with Wit and Pudding."
The chorus went something like: "Moo, moo, the Sacred One / Turned despair to royal fun!"
"I like that one," Bessy said, swaying along to the slightly flat melody. "Catchy. Needs more cowbell, though."
"Catchy?" Tomlin spluttered, clutching a pilfered roll like a lifeline. "They called me your 'humble disciple of moo' who 'trips over fate and rakes alike'!"
"Accurate," Bessy said without missing a beat. "Poetic license, but spot-on."
That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the courtyard gold, the King summoned them once more to the throne room—now smelling faintly of pilgrim flowers and desperation.
King Eldred sat hunched on his throne, crown askew, eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and sheer royal terror.
"Farmer Tomlin! Lady Bessy! The people adore her! They're singing! They're spending coin! The taverns are full!" He paused, voice dropping. "But… the high clergy are furious. They've sent ravens. Scrolls. Strongly worded parchments. They say I'm promoting heresy! Blasphemous bovine worship!"
Tomlin paled so fast he nearly matched the marble floor. "Oh great. We're going to be excommunicated, famous, and possibly featured in cautionary church pamphlets."
"Relax," Bessy said calmly, licking a stray bit of bread from her hoof with dignified poise. "Let the priests come. I'll convert them too. Starting with better robes—those scratchy ones can't be good for divine inspiration."
The King buried his face in his bejeweled hands, muffling a sound that was half sob, half laugh.
"I should've stuck to gardening," he moaned. "Roses don't start religions. Or pudding fights."
From the open windows drifted the faint, cheerful strains of yet another bard practicing the new hit single: "All Hail the Moo of Mercy."
And somewhere in the courtyard, a chicken clucked in perfect rhythm.