Eat the Poor

XXV

For a moment all I could do was stare.

I stared at the dark pool of blood circling the boy's boots - my boots, by the looks of them - I stared at the beheaded body laying on the platform. An unmistakably royal body, dressed to the nines in a buttoned waistcoat and ermine-trimmed cloak. Even in this roughly inked sketch, the idea was obvious.

The King was dead.

Killed by a mob of peasants.

Killed by me.

I looked up, my lips dropping open instinctually to speak, to protest, to clear my name. To insist I had never seen the drawing before in my life. But for once, my tongue refused to budge.

"Yesterday, a wagon en route to the castle was intercepted by a band of outlaws," Fitzhugh said. "The goods were stolen and the wagon set aflame. Death of England was carved into one of the steed's flank."

"You mean to tell me this picture has inspired some sort of anarchist movement?" the King asked.

"I cannot tell you with certainty, sire. My men are investigating it." Fitzhugh paused to stroke his beard. "I assure you anyone who participates in such acts shall be put to death."

Put to death. I would be put to death.

"That's not fair!" I yelled, struggling desperately against the gaurds' grip on my arms. "I didn't ask to be drawn in that thing!"

"Oh, spare us this noise," Fitzhugh grumbled. He whirled his body towards us. "The boy has just confessed to being the one in the drawing. Throw him where he belongs, lads."

The guard grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved his gloved hand into my mouth to silence me. "My deepest apologies, sire. He's quite the feisty one."

I gagged as his fingers hit the back of my throat and bit down instinctually. The guard let out a howl and attempted to retract his hand, while the other two stood back in a mix of confusion and horror.

I bit down as hard as I could. After a moment of wild flailing, he swung his free hand and landed a blow to my face. My jaw snapped open and he toppled backward onto his arse in the middle of the floor.

"Captain, who is this man?" the King questioned calmly.

"Sir John at your service, sire," the guard panted from the ground. His face was a red ball of fire.

The King's usually warm eyes were now cold as ice and betrayed no emotion. "He is an embarrassment to the entirety of the Royal Guard," he said. "Get this nonsense out of my sight."

With a low breath, the Captain flicked two fingers toward the guards and then gestured to the door. The pressure on my arms released and I slumped pathetically to the ground. Sir John struggled to his feet with a ragged breath.

"What of the boy, Your Majesty?" Fitzhugh asked.

I didn't look up. I couldn't bear to see Philip's face when he ordered me to the dungeon. I let out a dazed whimper and shut my eyes against the carpet.

"I wish to question him more extensively," the King replied after an agonizing silence. "Leave him."

Leave me? I lifted my head at his words.

"Your Majesty..." Fitzhugh combed through his gray beard. "Is that wise... considering what is depicted-"

"It is wise if I decide it to be," the King snapped.

The Captain's brow twitched in silent protest, but he simply turned and followed a limping Sir John down the long red carpet. I lay there, crumpled up with my legs bent beneath me, alone with just the King. On any other occasion, I would have been ecstatic at this arrangement, but now my stomach twisted and clenched, a knotted rope pulling in opposite directions.