Eat the Poor

XV

We sat on the floor by the King's bed, as if two picnickers, drinking wine and eating tiny fruit tarts Charles the butler brought in.

The wine was rich and sweet, dark in my glass. My mouth tasted of cherry and lemon and strawberry, and soon my stomach was heavy and straining against my tight vest.

I watched Philip through drooping eyelids, bathing in his sensual innocence. I was mesmerized by him, his hair like soft flame, his skin like smooth porcelain. His full lips were stained dark from the wine. He looked to be something out of a classical painting, a work of art crafted by God Himself.

"You know, people like me," I said as Charles refilled my glass. "We don't really get... waited on."

Philip grinned while I eyed the butler nervously, as if the older man would suddenly realize my poor economic status and retract the pitcher. "Come and visit me more," the King said. "You can have all the wine you want." He pushed the platter of tarts in my direction.

I was already quite full, but overeating was not a luxury I could often boast. Obligingly, I pushed two more into my mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of wine.

"Shall that be all, my lord?" Charles asked, positioned in an odd half-bow.

The King gave him a coy smile. "Yes. Unless Mr Murray should enjoy some other refreshment."

Charles gulped and turned to me. "Refreshment, sir?" A line of perspiration lined his brow.

It took me a few moments to process being referred to as sir and not you there or simply boy. "Uh... I'm alright."

"Then I shall bid you goodnight." He bowed deeply and swept across the marble floor, gloved hands locked behind his back.

Philip remained silent until the door clicked shut, his face stoic. Then, all at once, he smirked, as if the sun had reappeared after a thunderstorm. "Good, he's gone. I don't want him reporting every little thing I say to Beauregard."

"Beauregard keeps a pretty close eye on you, don't he?" I asked, hoping I sounded nonchalant.

"He has always been... overbearing," Philip said. He adjusted the glass in his hands. "But as of late he has worsened. As my father's health declined, he sort of... took over everything."

"His health?" I repeated, picturing that morning in the courtyard. "I thought he just-" I made a whistling noise and a motion with my hand like something falling through the air.

Too late, I realized how insensitive it sounded.

"He was drinking himself to death." Philip's voice was hollow. "And spending every last copper in the treasury, to no surprise."

I knew Philip III was a hated king. Fat and frivolous, flaunting his name with grand statues of himself in the countries he devastated. He taxed his own people half to death and when the men could not pay with coins, they paid with their daughters.

"Beauregard's always been more of a father to me than him," Philip continued, his eyes distant. "The only problem is he cannot accept that I no longer need one."

"A father?"

His jaw set. "Never did me any good in the first place."

I considered this. I realized I was starting to care less and less whether Philip actually had a hand in the late King's death. Whatever his truth was, it couldn't be any worse than my own.

"I need a drink," he murmured, and got to his feet.

I leaned back, allowing my shoulder to brush the corner of his mattress. The King's bed was huge, likely wide enough for five men across. The canopy curtains were drawn open to reveal silky sheets of deep violet.