The King Being the Way He Was

The lords had been sitting at the king’s dinner table for a good twenty minutes now.

And still no sign of the king.

To begin with they’d sat in silence, adjusting their powdered wigs and resisting the urge to disturb the grand feast laid out before them.

Then they’d heard footsteps echoing through the draughty north tower.

The king at last?

But no. The sounds had come, dwindled, and gone.

Then they’d begun to speculate.

Perhaps the king had got himself into a spot of bother?

What if he’d hurt himself?

Shouldn’t they go and find out?

But no; of course not; they were only being silly.

This sort of thing happened all the time, after all, the king being the way he was.

They must only wait.

But waiting was ever so hard, wasn’t it, especially now that their tummies had started to rumble.

Lord Glutton reached for a chicken leg.

“Don’t,” the other lords warned. “The first bite must always be the king’s.”

“Come now,” said Lord Glutton. “He’ll never know.”

“Don’t,” the lords repeated.

“What about the wine?” suggested Lord Sot. “One drop can’t hurt. Surely.”

“No,” the other lords said. “The first drink must always be the king’s.”

“But I’m ever so parched.”

“No,” they said. “And that’s the end of it.”

Lord Snob snorted. “It’s hardly like His Grace needs all this food and wine though, is it.”

“What do you mean?” the other lords asked.

“The size of him, is what I mean. Have you ever seen a king so fat?”

There were dark mutterings among the other lords. “It is treason to insult the king’s person,” they said.

“Is it now?” said Lord Snob. “Do you know what I say to that? I say Pah! Pah, I say.”

“Snob has the right of it,” said Lord Sheep. “I mean, we all saw His Grace at last summer’s tourney. It was a wonder he didn’t crush his own horse.”

“Have you ever had an original thought, Sheep?” the other lords asked.

“Here’s one,” said Lord Quip. “The king was lying in bed with the queen. The king looked at her seductively and said, ‘I’m wide awake, my love.’ The queen replied, ‘You’re wide when you’re asleep too.’”

The other lords rolled their eyes. “It is the royal jester’s job—and his alone—to make mock of the king.”

Lord Mischief, however, was giggling.

He produced a sharp pin that shone in the candlelight. “Wants to keep us waiting, does he? Then I’ve a plan that’ll serve him right.”

With long, pantomime steps Mischief went over to the king’s seat at the head of the table. He pulled out the oak chair with a screech, and placed the pin there, before sliding the chair back.

He giggled. “He’ll get an awful fright when at last he joins us.” He clutched his bottom and mimed excruciating pain.

The lords looked about them and saw that there was no one left to object to Mischief’s prank. They had all damned the king in one way or another.

Well, apart from one lord. But that was Lord Treason.

“A pin?” spat Lord Treason. “On his chair? Is that the best we can do?” Treason retrieved the pin and tossed it across the room. “King Fat, I call the man. King Oaf. King Slob. King Dolt. King Tardy. The man tortures us every day with his lateness. And what is his excuse? It is not him who is slow, he says; it is time that is quick. I say we suffer his excuses no more. I say we each take up a knife, and upon the ape’s arrival—God alone knows when that will be—we stab him in his heart until the blood flows from him like wine.”

A ripple of disquiet ran through the room.

Even the portraits of old, solemn kings, hanging high up in the gloom, seemed to disapprove.

Could they really murder their own king?

The answer, after a moment’s discussion, appeared to be yes.

So they sat in silence and waited.

It was dark by the time they heard the footsteps in the corridor.

The door creaked open.

A herald called out, “His Grace King Fearless!”

The lords stood.

The knives, which they wore hidden under their sleeves, were cold against their flesh.

At last the king came shuffling in.

“Be seated,” he said, taking his own seat at the head of the table.

But the lords did not sit.

The king didn’t raise even a grumble at this insolence. Merely prodded the cold food on his plate.

“Forgive my tardiness,” he said finally, scratching his belly. “As we all know too well, a man can hardly deny his own nature. Anyway.’ He burped. ‘Lord Meek, if you could pass that slice of bacon? Yes, that one. There.’

It all happened very quickly then.

All the lords sat down but for Lord Treason, who just at that moment slipped his knife from his sleeve.

Every eye, even those of the old kings high up in the gloom, watched the blade as it glimmered in the candlelight.

Treason raised the knife.

‘Come on, Meek. We haven’t got all day.’

And brought it down into the bacon.

And with that, Treason – or the man that he had been – just sort of … melted.

Holding the bacon aloft on the tip of his knife, he stood up and went to the head of the table.

‘Marvellous,’ the king said. ‘Just there, if you will.’

Treason used a second knife to feed the bacon off the first knife, but it proved stubborn. It didn’t want to budge.

The king tsked.

Someone coughed.

Someone sniffed.

The king drummed his fingers.

‘Alright, alright,’ the king said. ‘Don’t hover, Meek. Go on. Back to your seat.’

The man that had been Treason slouched. ‘Your Grace.’ He walked back to his seat and sat.

‘That’s a fetching jerkin, Your Grace,’ Lord Snob said. ‘Is it new?’

‘Ah, you noticed, Lord Obsequious?’ The king stretched out his arms and the leather creaked. ‘Had it fitted this morning. Bit of a tight squeeze, but well, you know.’

‘No, not at all. Makes you look most shapely, Your Grace. Most kingly.’

‘Ha! You’ll go far, Obsequious. Now,’ the king dug a finger in his ear, ‘let’s get some atmosphere in this place. Who’s got a joke, I wonder. Or a game. Not you, Lord Morose. You wouldn’t know fun if it came up behind you and tickled your balls.’

Mischief sat up stiffly, remembering that that was him.

And so it went like that.

The lords nibbled and scraped at their food, as the king fought with his.

They watched and listened and cowered as the man smacked and crunched and glopped away, as his lips and fingers grew shiny with grease, as matter caked at the corners of his mouth, as wine dribbled down his chin.

The old kings, high up in the gloom, muttered their approval and rested their eyes.