Once upon a time there lived a good king who was driven from his
throne by an enemy. A few faithful knights and servants fled with his
majesty to a forest where they found shelter in deep, rocky caves.
The flight from the king’s palace had been so hasty that the knights
and servants could bring only a few things for their king’s comfort.
It was in the early autumn and his majesty feared it would be
necessary to live in secret during the coming winter. You may be sure
the king was well pleased to find his knights had brought a few warm
blankets and robes. After he had praised his followers for their
thoughtfulness in providing for the winter, a young page stepped
forward and said, “Your Majesty, I did not bring clothing, but I
brought as many candles as I could carry.”
“Candles,” laughed the king, “now pray tell me, lad, why you brought
candles. You served me well in the palace by seeing that my throne
was properly lighted, but in our forest exile we shall have little
use for candles, I fear.”
“Sire,” replied the page, “I thought that your majesty would wish to
hold council in the evenings, and that I could light your throne seat
with candles as was the custom in the palace.”
“I fear my throne seat, as you call it, will be nothing more than a
rocky ledge for some time,” said the king. “See, there is one in the
inner cave which will serve. So long as the candles last, my faithful
lad, your king will not be obliged to hold council in darkness.”
“So long as the candles last,” repeated the king’s page to himself.
“I hope our king’s soldiers, who are seeking help, will be able to
drive the usurper away before winter comes.”
The king and his followers soon adapted themselves to life in exile.
During the daytime they hunted game which lurked in the thickets; in
the evening they gathered together in the deep cave and held council.
Then it was that the king sat on his rude throne lit by two candles.
The king’s page with sinking heart saw the candles grow fewer and
fewer until there were but two left. Then at last came an evening
when the lights were missing from the king’s throne. In a dark corner
of the cave the little page sat grieving because he could not see his
king’s face.
It happened one morning that the lad wandered to the edge of the
woodland where the highway separated the richly coloured forest
trees from a stretch of meadowland where the white mist was slowly
lifting. On the roadside was an old woman carrying a large sack on
her bent shoulders. When she reached the place where the king’s page
was standing she set her sack on the ground and looked wistfully at
the meadow, then at the deep ditch which separated the field from the
highway.
“Shall I help you across the ditch?” asked the king’s page.
“Thank you, my lad,” said the old woman. “Perhaps I’d better not go
across. It would be hard for me to reach the highway again. But I
should like a few of those tall mullein spikes. I’ve none in my bag
so fine as those growing in the meadow.”
“I’ll gather some for you” said the king’s page.
He leaped across the ditch, and soon filled his hands with the tall
mullein spikes.
The old woman was delighted. She tucked them into her bag and said,
“They make such fine winter candles. Thank you, my lad.”
“Winter candles!” exclaimed the king’s page.
“Aye,” nodded the old woman. “Dip them in tallow, a thin coat will
do--and you have candles fit for a king. Thank you kindly.”
“We are in sore need of candles where I live, but----” the page
stopped.
“Use mullein spikes. They make candles fit for a king, I say,” and
the old woman picked up her sack.
“But we have no tallow,” said the lad.
“I can spare you a lump of tallow, my boy. Come along with me to my
cottage,” said the old woman.
So the king’s page carried the sack of mullein spikes to the old
woman’s cottage and she gave him a large lump of tallow. On his way
back he leaped across the ditch again and filled his arms with tall
mullein spikes. He hurried back to the cave, melted the tallow, and
dipped the weeds into the liquid fat.
When the king and his party returned that evening to the cave, two
tall candles were standing on the rude throne.
“See,” cried the king’s page, “we have a fresh supply of candles.”
“Tell us where you got them,” said the surprised king.
“They are made from spikes of the mullein weed,” explained the king’s
page. Then he told his majesty about the afternoon’s adventure.
“The mullein weed shall have a new name,” declared the king. “It
shall be called the King’s Candles.”
A few days later the king called his followers around his throne seat
and said, “A message has come to me declaring that the usurper has
been driven out of my country. Tomorrow we’ll hold a feast in the
palace, and the table shall be lighted by ‘King’s Candles.’”
Every year since that far-off time when the reigning king holds an
autumn festival, the banquet table is lighted with mullein spikes
dipped in tallow, and they are called the “King’s Candles.”
“The mullein’s yellow candles burn
Over the heads of dry, sweet fern.”