Eat the Poor

XXXII

🍌 CW - sexual content

Council went poorly. The King took supper in the Great Hall and soothed his men with violinists and acrobatic displays. They played cards in the salon and smoked, which had long been forbidden because tobacco made Philip III queasy.

The sun was swimming in a great pool of orange and pink when they returned, staggering, gripping the King's white fingers as they fell over themselves.

I had spent the evening in the study, my only company a pair of page boys and countless books I couldn't read. The boys lay sprawled on the floor, a game of draughts between them, while I hunched by the window and squinted at the opening line of a nursery rhyme collection.

The letters swirled together on the page, inky soup.

I heard the footsteps approach. A chorus of fawning and tittering and hands petting my King like he was a fucking rabbit.

The page boys scrambled up from the floor. "Y'Majesty," they chorused. Wigs askew, clothes rumpled. They stood with chins jutted perfectly straight, eyes on the wall behind the King.

Philip looked right at me. "Auden."

Like a child whose father had just returned from war, I threw my book aside and went to him. When my King called, I came.

He clasped my hands to pull me into the hall. "Auden, you have to come with me." I pulled back as a copper-wigged courtier leaned saucily into his shoulder. He was a younger man, around five and twenty, face powdered white save for a proud mole on his chin.

"What's wrong?" I eyed the circle of men, searching for glowers of disgust, but they all seemed merry enough, some redder in the face than others.

"Nothing." Philip buried his face in my shoulder and giggled. "Nothing's wrong."

I understood now. Beauregard was gone. There was no one to tell him to conduct himself, to stay on schedule, to behave. The courtiers swarmed us, drunk at the chance of glimpsing the King's chambers.

Within hours, news of the Lord Chamberlain's dismissal had spread and many hoped to obtain a position in the Privy Chamber. Hoped to be the first to wake him, first to kiss his hand, first to plea for money as he used the pot.

"The servants have prepared a meal for us." Philip slotted me into the group. I jumped as an older courtier with a pluming mustache locked elbows with me.

"Elias Limsey, Earl of Hamilton," he introduced.

"Murray," I returned weakly.

The gold walls of the King's bedchamber shone under the high chandelier. The green armchair had been pushed up to the table, a smaller chair without arms facing it. Steam rose from a slab of steak, red and glistening, adorned with greens. A servant unstacked two plates, still hot from being washed in scalding water.

The group grew silent. Undoubtedly doing the mental calculations. Philip smiled before leading me inside. Elias Limsey watched on from his imprisonment in the hall.

Charles poured us each a glass of wine, so red it looked almost black. He took up the knife to cut the meat before Philip stopped him.

"We can do that."

Gray eyes twinkling, Charles withdrew from the table. "Some dessert, then?"

"Dessert would be lovely," Philip murmured. As the butler turned he grasped his hand tightly and mouthed thank you.

Charles gave him a wink and led the servants out.

The flames between us danced as cool air blew in from the balcony. My stomach rumbled with the anticipation of food. I watched Philip cut his steak, fork anchored firmly in the tender meat, knife sawing with elegant precision. He raised the slice to his lips, wet, still pink inside, leaving a pool of red juice on his plate.