He was working at an inn in the countryside when he met the young Queen.
Although she was in hiding she didn’t hide. She walked around. She chatted with the landlord, the barmaids, the regulars. Her flight from the capital, she complained, all that travelling. It’d given her a sore neck and constipation.
She shared their food. Soft fruit and hard bread. Not as if it was a display of parity – more as if she was hungry.
One night at the inn there was a string band. She didn’t dance. She watched the dancers. Not as if she found them gauche – as if she watched them because they were there and they were dancing.
It became too much for him. He went and found some republican soldiers. She was perfectly polite when they arrived – as if they were in her employ, or she was in theirs.
Aiden Clarkson lives in Manchester, studies and teaches at Keele University, and haunts twitter.