A medieval astrologer, known far and wide for his strange predictions and even stranger hat collection, was summoned to the court of King Reginald the Restless—so named because he couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes without either launching a war or redecorating the throne room.
The king had a favorite mistress, Lady Clarabelle, whose hair was like sunshine and whose temper was like wildfire. One day, while reading the stars—and possibly the leftover stew stains on his robe—the astrologer boldly declared, “Sire, I must tell you… the stars warn that your beloved Lady Clarabelle shall die soon.”
The court gasped. The king narrowed his eyes. Lady Clarabelle threw a grape at the astrologer.
Sure enough, just a few days later, Clarabelle took one sip of royal goat’s milk and dropped dead. Apparently, the goat had eaten something suspicious, like the palace gardener’s sock.
The king was outraged. He stormed into the astrologer’s chambers, guards in tow.
“You!” the king bellowed. “You foretold Clarabelle’s death!”
“Well, yes, Your Majesty. The stars—”
“Silence!” the king shouted, pacing furiously. “You must have caused it! You cursed her! You bewitched her with your… your horoscope hocus-pocus!”
The astrologer tried to protest, “But I merely read the alignment of Mars and—”
“Enough!” the king declared. “Guards! Prepare to throw him off the castle tower!”
As the guards grabbed the old man by his arms, the astrologer suddenly spoke up, his voice calm and eerily confident.
“Wait, Your Majesty. Before you execute me, it is only fair that I share one final prophecy.”
The king, always a sucker for drama, halted the guards with a wave. “Go on, then. Your last words had better be good.”
The astrologer closed his eyes and raised his hands to the heavens.
“Oh great and ancient skies! I see it now… I foresee… that Your Majesty shall die exactly three days after I do!”
The throne room fell into complete silence.
The guards looked at the king. The king looked at the guards. One knight dropped his halberd.
Reginald, not exactly a brave man, paled like sour milk.
“Um… three days, you say?”
“Exactly three,” the astrologer confirmed with a solemn nod. “The stars are quite clear.”
The king gulped, then very quickly turned to the guards. “Unhand this man at once! Give him a room in the highest tower, with fresh fruit, a feather bed, and a personal harpist to soothe him. I want daily updates on his health, hourly if he sneezes!”
From that day on, the astrologer became the most protected man in the kingdom. Doctors visited him twice a day. The cook personally tested his meals. He was even assigned a royal cat to sit on his lap and reduce stress.
Years passed. Kings came and went. But the astrologer lived a long, pampered life, sipping herbal tea and chuckling every time someone mentioned “fate.”
