A/N: This bonus chapter is in Philip's POV and takes place from chapters IX-X ❤️ It was so fun revisiting that scene and also writing from the opposite perspective!

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Philip

I am fonder of beasts than men.

I prefer their wordless communication to the often baffling complexities of human conversation. My steed, Archibald, speaks to me in his own way, in a language we have mastered together in the nine years we have spent together.

I am feeding him an apple when the stable hand appears at my side.

"Yours?" he asks.

He is the stable hand. The one I look for when I come to ride. 

I hold back my smile, though I am unable to stop the tiny shiver of excitement that sparks throughout my body. I am amused by this boy, with his awkward speech and clumsy bow.

What are you doing here? I asked him in the garden.

Watching you.

"Archibald," I tell him, keeping my eyes on my horse. The white stallion stares back at me with pitch-black eyes. "My favorite."

"Shall I saddle him?" he asks, looking directly at me. I am not used to this. Everyone, except for Beauregard, my Lord Chamberlain, does not dare allow their gaze to fall upon me. Evidently, Mr Murray does not know or care to do this. And now, I sense his eyes on me and I feel so small, so deliciously ordinary, I can barely summon a response.

"I only came to visit."

"You're alone," he points out. "Where're your courtiers?"

I like the way he speaks. His voice is rough, some of the words slurred together, far different than the refined speech I am used to hearing. The corners of his lips turn up at the end of his question, and when I turn toward him, his eyes are on mine, deep brown and slightly downturned.

I give him a soft smile. "I can be alone if I wish."

His eyes flicker and he looks as though he wants to ask something, but turns his attention instead to Paulo, the small brown stallion in the last stall by the stable doors. "That one on the end," he says. "Whose horse is that?"

I smile at his curiosity. No one asks after Paulo. He is often forgotten, though over the years I have always insisted he not be sent to slaughter. Perhaps I was hoping one day he would find a rider.

"He is nobody's." I tell Mr Murray the story of the day I found him, roaming in the forest.

"What's his name?"

"Paulo. From the Latin word paulus. It means one that is small and humble." An accurate descriptor of Paulo, who is well-behaved despite his lack of training. I have always had a soft spot for him.

"I've been calling him Brownie."

It's unexpected and I start to laugh. What stable hand carries this long of a conversation with the King? The most I ever hear from these boys is yes, sire and right away, sire. Eyes down, heads lowered in eternal subservience.

"Brownie," I say. "That's sweet."

"No one ever takes him for a ride." His voice carries a hint of pity, an edge of hope. "I bring him out to the pasture to eat with the others, but mostly he just paces round in circles. You should ride him."

I look at him again. I can see that he has grown fond of this horse, and my heart warms at the thought that small, lost Paulo may have finally found a companion. "I have Archibald," I tell him. "You ride him."

At once, fear shadows Mr Murray's sharp face. "Oh... I couldn't," he mumbles.

"It's fine, I assure you," I say, still smiling. "He needs the exercise anyway. I am sure he misses going out."

"No, really, I couldn't," he insists, looking even more horrified.

I cross my arms. He must think that because he is only a stable hand, he is not worthy of riding a King's horse. I want to insist that he is free to do so, but suddenly I have a better idea. "Mr Murray, if I'm not mistaken you told me you go riding at every opportunity. Now here I am giving you the chance, and you turn me down."

It is bold of me. I know it, he must know it. His jaw tenses as he realizes what I am offering. "You mean... go riding with you?"

I almost say something about wanting to see him ride Paulo, but instead I give him a shrug, trying to mimic his casual nature. "I'm going anyway. I suppose you're free to join me."

I like to ride alone. It is my escape, my one opportunity to breathe, to run free with no direction after being pulled in so many different ones all day. But I would not mind riding with this curious, amusing stable hand.

"Now wait," he says, grinning now. "You said you just came to visit your horse."

When he smiles, I smile. I can't help myself. I have looked for him in the faces of servants whom I pass by, never knowing where I might find him. The garden, the courtyard, the halls. I want to see him more. "I said I came to visit." He can decide what I mean by that on his own. "So, are you coming?"

Without a word, he takes off running, not even bothering to bow to me. I wait for him, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. For a few minutes at least, I have managed not to think about the luncheon I will have today with the Duc de Montpensier, the son of the King of France.

I must be very welcoming to him, robust and humorous, proud but not ostentatious, so that he will like my country and perhaps be willing to part with his only daughter. Henriette is her name. I hear she is very beautiful, yet my stomach swims with terror at what marriage entails.

Mr Murray returns with the stable master, who saddles Archibald. At once my nerves are turned back into excitement. We lead our horses outside, and I find that it is me lowering my eyes, ducking my head when he looks at me.

"I suppose you consider yourself a skilled rider," he says, almost challengingly.

I smile at this. A stable hand challenging the King is like a mouse challenging a lion. But then again, I don't feel much like a king with him.

"Well, on my second birthday, my father sat me on a pony and I've been on horseback ever since," I tell him.

"Hmm, I see." His eyes stray to the brown stallion, as if unimpressed. I suppose that Mr Murray, who has been working with animals his whole life, would naturally not be impressed that I can ride a horse. I imagine Mr Murray tames all sorts of beasts - bulls, rams, mules, oxen. "It's just that on my first birthday, my father sat me on his greatest steed and I clung to the reins as it galloped down the lane."

"Really?" I gasp. He only shrugs. "In that case, it appears a race is in order."

"No need," he says, nonchalant as ever. His cropped brown hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, no doubt from wrangling beasts all day. "The winner is already clear."

The growing heat in my cheeks blossoms and my lips drop open. "How audacious of you, Mr Murray." This boy doesn't bow, he looks me dead in the eyes, and now he insults me. And I like it.

"Go on," he tells me. "I'll give you a head start. Since I'm going to win." He speaks confidently, but there is a hint of unease in his voice. Does he not want to ride with me? I suppose this is rather unusual. Perhaps he has better things to do with his time.

I mount Archibald in silence, forcing myself to banish my worry. It is a great privilege to be spoken to by me, let alone invited on an outing. He must simply be nervous that he will lose the race and embarrass himself before me.

I can certainly empathize with this fear. I know better than anyone how daunting being in the presence of the King is. Even as the Crown Prince of England, I have lived a life crippled by fear of my father.

And now my father, the one thing restraining me from ultimate power, is gone. Vanquished like smoke. And I am still afraid.

My musings are interrupted by a loud cry and a flurry of hooves. Paulo tears past me, Mr Murray barely clinging to the reins. "I told you I'd win!" he shouts at me, moments before they slip from his grasp altogether. I gasp as his arms fly up and he tumbles from the saddle and goes rolling, head over heels down the hill. A mangled yelp escapes him, followed by silence as he reaches the bottom. There he lays still on his back.

I am struck by the terrible fear that he is dead.

This odd young fellow, this hall boy turned stable hand who tamed steeds before he wore breeches, is dead.

I plod down the hill on Archibald, dreading the sight awaiting me. If Mr Murray's head struck a rock, his features might be unrecognizable. Blood and brain. And yet I find him fully intact, russet brown eyes staring up at the sky. A stone's toss away, Paulo grazes in the field, unbothered.

My momentary relief turns to indignation. What kind of rider is he? He could barely sit up in the saddle. I give him a moment to come to his senses, and scowl as he stares up at me with a foolish grin.

"You are such a liar," I snap. I am reminded of when he told me he was the gardener. What was he actually? Just a hall boy. A hall boy with fantastical stories.

I walk over to where he lies in the grass, my anger fighting hard against my persisting fondness for him. It is hard to be angry at someone who smiles crookedly when I prod his cheek with my shoe.

"You absolute scoundrel," I hiss. "You're a terrible rider! You act as if you've never been on a horse before." Mostly, I am just happy he is smiling at me and not dead.

Without a care in the world, Murray shrugs again. "I haven't."

Shock rips through me. I find myself down in the grass beside him, though my luncheon with the Duke is soon and I should know better than to risk dirtying my clothes. Beauregard will be so angry if I return with my stockings stained.

"Are you alright?" I ask Mr Murray. He sits up, slowly, and I realize that he is fine. My anger returns.

He gets only a few slurred words out before I slap him.

"That's for making up stories."

"It's not my fault if you believe them," he returns, but he is smiling and somehow, I am smiling too. I sit beside him with the hill to our backs, shielding us from the stables and the rest of the castle. No one knows where I am, that I am out here.

Except for Mr Murray.

"You shouldn't feel so compelled to lie," I tell him. "I'm sure you're just as interesting even if you weren't taming grand beasts as a toddler." I want to know the truth about him, not these stories. There is something mystifying about him, almost unsettling. He is unlike anyone I have ever met.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm the least interesting person in the whole world."

His eyes are deep-set and dark, brows thick and uneven. A thin mustache shadows his upper lip. His face is angular. Sharp. His short hair is unruly, with sweaty strands sticking up. There is barely any meat on his bones. I doubt women would find him handsome.

And yet, he has a certain... charm. A teasing smirk that reaches his eyes. I imagine there must be more than a few ladies who have seen that smile and dream of it still.

"Do you have a family?" I ask him.

"Yes." He hesitates. "I have my mother and five brothers."

Brothers. I always wondered what that would be like. I had only sisters, who never felt much affection for me. Had I an older brother, I would not be King today. I could only imagine how many times my father had cursed God for the way things turned out. Had I a younger brother, there would still have been hope. Hope that fever or a fall while hunting would take me, and I would disgrace him no longer.

"Your father?" I ask Mr Murray, though I can't look at him.

"He passed serving his duty to England." There is no sadness in his voice. "To you."

I look at him. His gaze is unflinching. I wonder if he thinks I am a monster. I know how the people felt about my father. It is hard to blame them. I want to make things better, but I feel so stupid. I have been told my whole life that I am stupid, because I can't talk to people and time escapes me and I believe everything that everyone says.

I just want people to like me. I want the crowds to cheer for me when I ride through London, I want the Duc de Montpensier to think I am a great King, I want Henriette to see me and want to marry me. I want Mr Murray to like me and perhaps go riding with me again.

While I am thinking this, he begins to tell me a story. He tells me that he and I were born in the same month. December of the coldest winter in ten years. He stops to ask if I am bored.

"No," I say. I like listening to him talk.

He tells me that one day he went missing from his cradle. His mother, the poor woman, searched everywhere, but could not find him. She dragged herself out into the cold and began digging in the snow for him. Murray tells me that when his father returned, they found the baby right in his cradle where he should have been.

"'A fairy came for the other baby,' she would tell me." Murray smiles when he thinks of her, a far-away sort of smile. He tells me that his mother believes the fairy brought her the Prince instead. "She would tuck me in and say, 'Good night, my prince.'"

"So the babies got switched?" I ask. I start imagining that I was never a prince at all, but a soldier's son born on a farm. Then I realize this is impossible. "That doesn't make any sense. I look exactly like my mother."

"It's not supposed to make sense," he says plainly. Another reminder that I am stupid. "It's just a story. It's not true."

"Oh." I smile then because the story is silly, and I like it a lot more now that I know it's just a story. "My father dropped me on the stairs when I was a baby."

I'm not certain why I tell him this. Immediately I know I shouldn't have. A king does not discuss matters of the royal family with a servant. I should not say anything that would paint my father in a bad light. But my father is dead, and Mr Murray is alive and here beside me and I want to tell him a story too.

"Look." I lean closer and show him the scar on my scalp, which I can feel if I run my finger there. "I have a scar on my head from it."

He doesn't respond.

"Do you see it?" I ask, head bent forward to show him. I can't see his expression.

"Yes," he whispers.

I look up, my smile fading as I notice how still his features are. "What's wrong?" His gaze softens as it meets mine, and he moves an inch closer to me. I can't explain why this makes me happy, but I feel as though I am wrapped in a warm blanket of sunlight.

"Dunno, my head's still all scrambled, I suppose," he says. "From- from the fall."

He slumps down in the grass to show me how tired he is. I laugh. "Yes, you did take a tumble, didn't you?" I am glad he is alright. I'm glad he is alright and here and talking to me, and I want to tell him before I can stop myself. "You're amusing. I quite like you." Then, pinching my lips together, I go on. "And you're the only person I know who actually looks at me. No one looks at me."

He startles at this. "Oh, god. I didn't even realize."

I giggle. This makes me even more happy. "I meant it as a good thing," I assure him.

Murray watches me in silence, his gaze drifting from my eyes down to my lips. My chest tightens and I feel the heat creep back into my cheeks. I was wrong before to think women would not find him handsome. He is, in fact, very handsome.

"We should head back soon." He keeps staring at me even as I speak. "I have plans to dine with the Duc de Montpensier and his daughter." His daughter, the girl I will soon ask to marry. She was my father's first pick for me, a union to seal the bond between England and France in case of war.

"Oh," Murray says. "Lovely."

I laugh. "No, it's not. I detest these sorts of things. Luncheons are long and boring already, but a luncheon with the French? I would rather take a sword to my own heart. They've been our enemy for centuries. One of the most powerful nations in Europe. And now we're meant to be friends?" I trail off and then, before I can stop myself, ask him: "Would you come with me?"

"Um..." He looks confused. "To the lunch thing?"

I know how ridiculous I must sound, but just the thought of having someone there - someone I could throw looks to as the Duke droned on and on - made me feel slightly better.

"You could find a job to do, couldn't you?" I ask him. "Oh, it would be so wonderful if you came, Mr Murray. Then I wouldn't feel so alone."

To my surprise, he agrees. "Alright. Could I pour the drinks or something?"

"Only if you pour Beauregard's down his shirt," I say, giggling.

"That I'd definitely get whipped for."

"I could get you out of it." This is my way of saying, being my friend would be nice.

Murray stumbles as we both stand, and my hand shoots out to steady his arm. I do this without thinking, but suddenly I realize I am touching him, and let go. "You going to make it, Mr Murray?"

He grunts a response through his teeth. "I bloody hope so."

"Do you think you can ride home?" I ask. Walking will take much longer, and I risk being late. With a frown, I decide I would rather be late than leave him out here.

"Of course," he replies airily, searching the field for his horse. He doesn't look too certain, and I'm beginning to catch on that Murray frequently exaggerates.

"Alright." I play along. "If you say so."

"Wait," he says before I can walk back up the hill. He looks up at me, hunched over with his hands on his knees. He looks quite pathetic, in sort of an endearing way. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me a hand? Your..." He pauses, as if trying to decide what to call me. "Your Majesty?"

"Come on, then," I say, slipping his arm across my shoulder. He leans into me, and once again I worry about the state I will return in. Mr Murray is quite dirty. Covered in sweat, forearms streaked with grime, shirt darkened with various stains. His boots are frayed and his hands, one of which now rests at my neck, are dark and calloused.

I want to touch his hand.

The thought ignites in my mind like a wildfire, one spark becoming open flame in a heartbeat. For some inexplicable reason, I like this strange, dirty, lying boy and I like feeling his arm around me.

I stop him before he can take Paulo's reins. "Hold on. Let me." I hold out my palm for the stallion to investigate, then gently stroke his muzzle. "Calm, Paulo," I murmur. The horse snorts and then his breathing slows, and he stands in place, waiting. "Get on," I tell Mr Murray.

I stroke Paulo's muzzle as he prepares to mount, his movements slow and unthreatening. It seems he has learned the power of a horse since his fall. I smile. It pleases me to see this. He who is rough and strong, he who could slaughter this stallion with the right tool, now fears and respects the beast.

He places a foot in the stirrup and raises himself. The horse jolts, muzzle slamming into my chest.

"Shh," I whisper as Murray lets out a yelp. "Shh, Paulo, calm." I can feel the horse's fear, his uncertainty. Horses are quite like us, I think. They just need to know they can trust you. "Calm, Paulo. Good boy."

"He doesn't like me," Murray says. He shifts awkwardly in the saddle and pets Paulo's mane. The horse tosses his head to shrug him off.

"You're not giving him a chance," I say. "Sit up straight. I'll help you keep balance." Murray grumbles at this, but does as I tell him. I turn away so he won't see me laugh at how silly he looks. I mount Archibald and, still holding Paulo's reins, begin leading him back to the stables.

Paulo trots beside Archibald. I wonder if horses have friends the way people have friends. I wonder if Paulo knows he is a common horse and he should not be friends with royalty.

I hope he doesn't.

We don't make it far. Beauregard's men intercept us before the stables, insisting I wear a coat to battle the chill. "It's windy out, Your Majesty," one says. "The Lord Chamberlain advised you wear this."

I want them to leave me alone. Putting on the coat means being ready for the luncheon, and being ready for the luncheon means being ready to meet the Duc de Montpensier. And Henriette. And the rest of the French.

"I'm still in my riding clothes," I say. Murray watches me nervously, hanging back with the horses.

The men look at one another. They are deciding whether or not to object. "The Lord Chamberlain requested you come as soon as possible," another one tells me. "The Duke has arrived."

Ultimately, it is my decision what I want to wear. If I so much as flick my wrist, they will leave and return with something they hope is better to my liking. But sometimes, it is easier not to fight.

"Fine," I sigh. "Go on."

I stand in place, much like a horse being saddled, as they attempt to wrestle the coat onto my body. I am used to being dressed, but I find it no less uncomfortable now than I did at ten years old. I remember causing great distress to my nurse, tearing about the room when she tried to get my riding boots on me for a hunting trip. My father came to see what all the commotion was, and just one cold look from him was enough to make me freeze and offer up my feet to be shoved into the too-tight boots.

Now the men are fighting, knocking each other aside and forcing themselves closer to me. I flinch at the hands pulling at me, prodding and tugging. One of them elbows me on accident. The coat is buttoned wrong, the collar stuck up and poking me in the throat.

"I'll do it." The voice comes from behind them.

I turn and smile helplessly at Mr Murray. "Thank you."

He steps closer. His hands replace the men's, working quickly to unbutton my coat and start over. His lips form a straight line as he concentrates, rough knuckles brushing my chest. His breath warms my skin, our faces nearly touching. I could touch him if I wanted to.

My hands stay frozen at my sides.

"There," he says, and for a brief moment our eyes meet. "Done."

I rip away from him before I say something I will regret. Or do something. "Wait here," I tell the men, desperate to duck into the stable. "I must see to my horse."

"I can put the horses away," Murray calls after me.

I toss him a grin as he heads in after me. "I'm stalling, if you did not notice." I lean close to him to speak, ensuring the other stable hands were out of earshot. "From now on, you can call me Philip."

He lets out a shaky inhale. "Are you serious?" Suddenly he looks as if he is about to be sick. "Sorry," he mumbles, one hand on his brow. "This is a lot."

Regret pours in. Shame. I've done this wrong, clearly. I thought that forgoing titles might make it easier for him to like me, to forget the difference between us. What am I thinking? He would never see me as a friend. Always his King. A man to fear.

"No, I'm sorry," I tell him. My head drops. I feel everything crashing down around me. "I'm terrible at making friends."

"Friends?" he asks.

"I..." I pause as a stable hand appears, and try to weigh my options. I can either say nothing or everything. And pouring my heart out to him might just scare him off, or give him something to laugh about tonight. I swallow hard. "I never really had playmates when I was little."

His brow furrows, eyes fixed on mine like they'll never leave. He is listening to me.

"My sisters are ages older than me and Father always kept me apart from the other boys so I could study arithmetic and astronomy and science and a hundred other subjects." I am rambling, I can tell, but the floodgates have opened and I can't close them. "I could read at age four and I can play chess and draughts but I don't... I don't know how to talk to people."

He stills. I wait for him to drop his gaze, turn away at my awkward confession. Instead, his hand reaches out and squeezes mine. "You're doing fine," he whispers.

A breath bursts from my chest. I laugh, light, airy. My heart begins beating again. "I really like you. You're interesting and you make me smile and you actually talk to me instead of-" I stop and tilt my head toward the stable doors. Murray smiles, catching my meaning. "So. Do you want to be friends?"

His hand slips away and I find myself missing it. "Is that allowed? A king and a..." He shakes his head, gestures to himself. "Well, me."

My teeth catch my lip. I've come too far to back off now. I like him, and I think he likes me. If I give this up, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering about him and wishing I had gotten to know him. "You're right," I tell him. "'Friends' was too strong a word. I should have asked if you wish to be associates. I shall try again." I steel myself. "Do you want to be friends?"

Murray breaks into a grin. "Yes."

"Good," I tell him. "Because I really need one."