Eat the Poor

XXXVIII

⚠️ CW - violence, gore, death

Drip. Drip.

Slain pigs dangled over buckets in the slaughterhouse, matted hair dark and stinking. They had been gutted, their entrails glistening on the blood-spattered floor. The Queen stifled a gasp at the sight of them, then buried her face in her hands.

Drip. Drip.

I watched one of the pigs, mesmerized. A bead of crimson gathered on its snout before falling into the bucket.

Geoff must have been here just before the rebellion. I imagined him slicing open the pigs, hearing the crowd gather in the courtyard. In a flash, the room blurred. Twisted. I envisioned the feast in full glory. People hanging over the buckets in place of pigs, bleeding from gashes in their throats. Blood streaking their faces, drying in clumps in their hair. Eyes open, staring out.

Staring at me.

"Auden." A hand grazed my arm and I flinched. Philip looked at me expectantly. "Auden, give me the sword."

I looked down slowly, as if drunk. I had almost forgotten I'd been holding it. I gripped the hilt. Why does he want it? A voice tugged at the back of my mind. He doesn't trust you.

He knows you're a killer.

"I have been trained to handle a sword," the King said. "Have you?"

Right. My mind slowly refocused. Geoff. The rebel servants. They were the enemy. Wordlessly, I handed him the weapon. He adjusted its position naturally in his hand. His curls flowed freely, red as the blood staining the slaughterhouse floor. His head lifted, his once-warm amber eyes now cold and sure.

This was it. This was his moment to be King. "Arm yourselves," he ordered. "Then we shall march to the courtyard and reclaim the castle."

Cleavers. Carving knives. Each blade in the slaughterhouse had been cleaned and sharpened recently, by the looks of it. They were laid out in a neat row on the table. Like silverware.

"No."

The King and guards stared at me as I took up a long, smooth knife, admiring its shine as I spun it in the light. Philip faltered. I could feel his gaze on me, blinking. "What do you mean, no?"

I set the long knife down and selected a smaller one. I flipped it in my hand, practicing all the ways I could stab and slash someone. I could do this. Fletcher had been good practice after all.

"We should stay here." My voice sounded distant and foreign. Not my own.

Blood. Filth. Rot. I felt all the power of that night rush into my bones as I held the knife. I heard the butcher's dying cries. I tasted his blood. This was the culmination.

"My God," Henriette shrieked. "He is one of them! He's led us here to be slaughtered like pigs!" She broke off into a stream of distressed French.

The guards pointed their swords at me. My fingers tightened around the knife.

Philip held my gaze. He breathed slowly, holding his hand out like I was a spooked beast. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said gently. "I need to know your plan."

"I'm going to kill Geoff." The words left my lips before I could even process them. "If he's sharp, he won't stay in the courtyard. He'll follow me to you." My eyes lowered slightly, to the King's pale throat, hidden beneath his high collar. "You're who he's after."

His chin raised, half a nod. This did not shock him. "Geoff. He is the one I spoke to?"

"Yes."

"Alright." Philip faced the guards. "Two of you find a place for Her Majesty to hide," he ordered. "She needn't be present for this." As they headed to the other side of the slaughterhouse, where the meat was prepared for the kitchens, the King addressed his remaining men. "It is time to put an end to this. Today, we fight for the Crown. We fight for England."