Eat the Poor

VI

I thought about him every night for a week.

I thought about his cloud of red hair and the little sprinkling of freckles over his nose. I thought about how he said my name. Good day to you, Mr Murray.

I thought about how my mother would squeal and jump up and down if I told her, Mama, I spoke to the Prince himself. No, the King. He was King now.

Of course, I knew it was wrong to idolize him. Geoff would hate me for it, and rightly so. There was nothing to like about this boy, nothing admirable or worthy of respect.

But I couldn't help it.

In the mornings, I waited for the trumpets to sound and the new King to come out and address his people. He never did.

I glanced over Geoff's shoulder when he read the newspaper to see if any executions were being held. There were none.

I laid in my cot and wondered what the King did all day. Did he have meetings and important business to attend to? Did he sit on his throne and count stacks of coins? Did he make beggars stand before him and throw rotten vegetables at them for his own amusement?

After a few days I came to a solid decision.

I would go to the castle gardens, where the King and his companions often took the air and socialized.

If I saw him, I would watch him from afar and hope the sight of him sated my curiosity. If I didn't see him, I would take it as a sign from God and never return again.

Foolproof plan.

It was raining hard that morning. Under the dark sky, the courtyard was slick with mud, the hens hiding in their coop. Rain pattered against the open doorway as I searched for Geoff in the kitchen.

He always stood alone at breakfast. Most days he stared at the wall as he ate, his eyes dancing around and his expression changing like he was playing out some scene in his head.

I took a bowl from the counter and crept up to him. We hadn't spoken since the day we met the King, save for a few good morning's and pass the sponge, if you please.

His knife was no longer concealed in a cloth sack. He'd fastened a leather sheath for it along his belt, the handle protruding proudly. I looked both ways before I spoke.

"I need your coat."

"Coat?" he asked casually, watching the other men shovel down their food.

"You know. Your coat." I kept my eyes on my bowl. I didn't want it to seem like we were too deep in a conversation. Breakfast today was a thick slop of bread mashed into water. Small pieces of cabbage were buried among the soggy bread chunks.

He spooned a bite of it into his mouth with dirty fingers. "It wouldn't fit you. You're too thin."

"I'll bring it back, if that's what you think."

"I believe you."

"Then-"

"Where will you wear it?" he interrupted. I grimaced and threw a glance across the kitchen. "It's my coat, I've a right to know where it goes, do I not?"

It's not yours, I wanted to say. I had a feeling he'd killed whatever nobleman he took it from. But the last thing I needed was a lunatic like Geoff angry with me. "I hate the food here," I said. "I want to go upstairs and enjoy a roast duck with figs and honey-"

The words had scarcely left my mouth when he laughed. The sound was rough and abrupt. Mr Coopers, who was leading the group in an obnoxious new round of jokes - today aimed at Roggar's wife - looked up and called, "Oi! Glory day, the old lad's got a sense of humor after all!"