The luncheon, meant as a casual affair, was served outdoors by the garden.

Of course, casual meant a dozen serving staff, four side tables topped with an extravagant display of food, and six violinists playing a lighthearted tune in the background.

The Duc de Montpensier, whom Philip pointed out to me among the circle of guests, was a tall, gray-faced man with a shriveled chin. The Duchesse was long dead, though, according to Philip, her husband had openly engaged in affairs with women all over the world while she lay ill.

He was hideous, too. Deep widow's peak down his forehead, long gray-white hair tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, bright orange boots that flared out at the top and clacked together as he walked.

He looked more like a ballroom jester than a duke.

Both his son and daughter were considerably better off in that department. They looked nearly identical, both having blue eyes and light, flaxen hair. The Duke's daughter wore hers pinned tightly at the back of her head, so that only a single curl was allowed to flow down her back.

"Your Majesty," one of the Frenchmen began, "it is an honor to introduce to you His Grace, Monsieur Jacques Jean-Gilbert, fils de France and Duc de Montpensier."

"Your Majesty." The Duke bowed.

Philip thrust out his hand and looked away as the Duke kissed it.

"His son Leopold Antoine, Marquis de Montpensier, and daughter Henriette," the man continued.

The Marquis looked about my age, perhaps only a year or two older. He was pitiably short with a head of fluffy locks like soft down. He gave us a sour frown and turned away.

Swiftly, the Duke grasped him by the elbow. He hissed something in French, the grip on his son tight enough to bruise.

"Bonjour," the Marquis forced out, then wrenched himself free.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," the girl followed, eyes down as she curtsied. She looked older than her brother, and slightly taller. "I hope you are fairing well. I wish to offer my deepest condolences for your loss."

All three of them had French accents, but hers was the most prominent. It was heavy and sweet, like nectar dripping from a flower.

"Thank you," Philip said. Through the corner of my eye, I searched his expression for the slightest hint of grief. It remained blank.

"Shall we sit?" The Duke gestured to the table. "I do look forward to this meal. Very fine spread indeed."

Philip forced a smile. His chair sat on a raised platform at the end of the table, to ensure that he would be higher off the ground than everyone else. "I hope you find it to your liking."

The luncheon included a variety of tastes, from goose to pheasant to mutton, potatoes and boiled eggs, bowls of garden salad, and, of course, several tiered platters of pastries. My stomach growled as the servants helped the guests into their seats.

Oh, to eat like this every day-

An elbow jabbed my rib. "The food, boy." The growl came from Chadwick Red, a senior servant of the castle. He was often known to wield the whip in punishing slackers.

I stumbled forward and grabbed a plate, then got in line behind the other servants making their way around the table. The King accepted a glass of wine and chugged it.

"Mutton?" I asked a portly gentleman.

He answered in a gruff cough. "Yes, yes, that's it."

The King's guests liked to eat. And eat they did, in the manner of starving hounds. Most of their mouths were so full by the time I got to their seat, they couldn't tell me how much mutton they wanted.

A line of gravy spilled from the puffy lips of the Duke. "Go on, go on," he ordered. A sharp, intoxicating perfume rolled off him while I spooned the meat onto his plate.

All of them were so fat, so greedy, belching into their handkerchiefs and shoveling down another mouthful without a single breath.

I began a little game with myself between polite nods to each guest. I imagined them in place of the food, naked and hogtied, boiling alive over the kitchen fire, the sharpest of knives slicing apart their flesh and carving through their bones. I wanted to kill them all, feed them to the pigs, and oh, what delicious, plump pigs they would be.

Blood and bone. Each face I gazed upon, I saw without the eyes, without the flesh, without the fat tongues, just blood and bone.

The thought got me high.

And then I got to her. The Duke's daughter. She looked out of place among all the older men, like a rabbit in a fox den. My eyes ghosted over her rouged, doll-like cheeks. "Mutton, miss?"

"Oh yes, please. Thank you." Her voice was like honey, her lips the color of cream and shaped like a heart. She was the only one to have thanked me.

Guilt pinched my heart. It was hard to imagine that any of them could be kind, or sympathetic, or anything but monsters.

They were monsters.

At the table now was the Duke's personal food-taster, a thin man that had made the trip with them from France. His job was to sample every item on his master's plate for poison or tiny shards of glass.

Philip and the Duke spoke of many things throughout their meal. First the weather in England, then the bumpy travel the Frenchman had endured, then the tragic passing of King Philip III and how wonderful a king he'd been. I got the idea that some sort of alliance was in the works, perhaps one the late King had strived for but never accomplished.

The men at the table raised their glasses to a new era.

"My friend," the Duke said once the plates were being cleared. "Do share with me your plans for England, so that I might bring happy reports home to my own father."

Philip was on his third glass of wine. "My plans," he said. "Uh..." He winced and shook his head.

The Duke smiled and leaned forward. "Your dreams, my friend. For this glorious country of yours."

"Yes. My..." His hand trembled, the wine swaying in its glass like a stormy sea. His whole body gave a little twitch and then he went limp, slumping forward and rolling out of his chair onto the ground. The wine glass hit the edge of the table and broke.

For a moment, everything was still.

I blinked, wondering if I'd imagined the last ten seconds.

"He's dead!" someone screamed.

"God's blood!" One of the nobles stood so fast his chair fell over. "Send for a doctor!"

At once they were rushing to him, crouching down under the table and pushing each other aside. I stood back, nausea churning in my stomach. If the King was dead, I didn't want to see.

Not again.

"Poison!" the Duke raved. "Poison, I say! This is why I have my meals sampled, you fools!"

"Your Majesty..." They kneeled in the grass beside him, five of them, one of the men lifting the King's head into his lap and brushing off his cheek. He blinked faintly, as if waking from a deep slumber. The man gripped his hand. "Your Majesty, are you alright?"

"Oh..." His voice floated up like smoke in the breeze. "I'm alright."

I let out a shallow breath. I was relieved, but I didn't want to think about it. I shouldn't care one way or the other if Philip dropped dead at lunch.

But looking at him in the wet grass, lying between the men like a weeping goddess surrounded by her nymphs, I was glad he was alive.

His eyes caught mine in the small crowd that had gathered, and then, ever so slightly, I saw it.

He smirked.

A sickening shudder tore through me.

"His Majesty is fine..." the nobleman reported. "He... he was overcome by the summer heat..."

"Yes, it is quite hot," someone agreed.

"Bring the refreshment!" a particularly sweaty noble called as the others helped Philip stand. "And dessert! Aren't we having dessert?"

Seizing my opportunity, I lifted a dish of cherry clafoutis and carried it directly to the King. The guests retreated to their seats slowly, looking back as if he might collapse again.

Anxiety bubbled in my stomach and I bit my lip. "What in God's name just happened?" I whispered, leaning close so no one would overhear.

He busied himself with fitting an entire chocolate éclair into his mouth while I cut a slice of the clafoutis. "I didn't know what to say," he mumbled, mouth full. "What else could I have done?"

Clumsily, I transferred the slice onto his plate, pinned between two forks. "Do you, uh... always faint when you don't know what to say?"

"Sometimes." He reached for a second éclair.

"Sire."

I turned abruptly at the sound of a stilted voice. The Lord Chamberlain stood behind us, his chin held high and his adam's apple bulging from above his tight cravat.

"The Duke is asking after you," he said.

"Tell him I feel better," Philip murmured. "Just too dizzy for any more talk."

"Not too dizzy to whisper with the gardener, I see."

He blinked.

Beauregard's eyes narrowed to glittering slits. "This is the gardener, is it not?"

"Oh!" I said. "Right, yes. They were short a man." I made a smacking sound with my lip and nodded. "I stepped up, of course. You're welcome."

"Mr Murray worked as a caterer before his employment here," the King said. "He was just getting back to the food, weren't you, Mr Murray?"

"Indeed I was." I sank into a shallow bow and turned away.

I'd only made it two steps when the light ding of a spoon hitting glass summoned me. "Servant boy." It was the Marquis calling me, the Duke's son. "More wine."

There were multiple pitchers of wine. I chose the darkest and carried it to his seat.

The boy had his arms crossed, his little heeled shoes kicked up on the table, and wore an arrogant scowl I imagined the Duke itched to slap away.

I refilled his glass. He was cute, though I wasn't sure anyone else would share my sentiments. He reminded me of a yapping pup tearing at its master's shoe - it thought it was the most ferocious thing in the world but the master would just sigh and lean down to pat its head.

"Enough!" he shouted suddenly.

I realized I was still pouring and tipped the pitcher back, a heartbeat before the wine spilled over.

Everyone at the table heard his voice. The clink of silverware slowed and all of a sudden close to fifty eyes were on me. The Duke looked mortified. Philip tilted his head to the left, a subtle motion. I understood. I hurried back to the food table.

"A word, Mr... Murray?" the Lord Chamberlain asked, his hands fitted together politely behind his back.

I set the pitcher down with added care. "Of course. One moment."

He drifted into the garden and waited for me to come trotting after him. I noted his lack of a walking stick and sent a silent prayer above. At least I wouldn't get my toes jabbed again.

"Just what do you think you're doing here?" he hissed when we were alone.

"Um." I chewed my lip. "Walking with you?"

His gray brows plunged downward. "Act smart with me, boy, and I'll have you horsewhipped."

I grimaced. I imagined myself, thrown over a table or tied to a post, my back bloodied and stripped raw. Chadwick would take pleasure in the deed, no doubt. "Alright," I said. "I'll be honest if you be honest. Who are you?"

"Who am I?" he repeated.

"You seem important," I said. "Are you some sort of royal advisor or something?"

His eyes had narrowed so deeply they were barely open. "I am the Earl of Wiltshire and Keeper of the Privy Purse. Over fifteen years ago the King's father appointed me Groom of the Bedchamber and I had been at His Majesty's side ever since." His pupils glinted like black moons as he leaned in close. "I assure you, I am much more than an advisor."

You would know, I thought. You would know if the King had his father killed, wouldn't you?

"Now, Mr Murray," he said. "Who are you?"

I steeled myself. "I'm..." My tongue stilled, a paintbrush facing a blank canvas. There was no lie, no truth, no words that seemed right. I shook my head and shrugged. "I'm just-"

"Beauregard." The King stood, propped up by two noblemen. "Leave Mr Murray alone, he's harmless."

"Sire, you should be resting!" Beauregard knocked me aside and advanced to meet them.

"I'll rest all the better in the shade," the King said. He drew the Lord Chamberlain in and lowered his voice. "I told the guests they were free to enjoy the garden. That should keep them entertained awhile."

"What of the doctor?" Beauregard asked. "Where is he?"

"We sent a page," one of the men told him.

"Pages are all dimwits. That could take over an hour."

"Then let me sit and rest for an hour," Philip said. "I haven't anything better to do."

"You," Beauregard ordered me. "Do something useful. Get His Majesty a drink."

I lowered my head and started walking.

"Actually I..." Philip's voice stopped me. "I hoped Mr Murray might sit with me."

Beauregard's eyes flicked back and forth between us. "Sire..."

"Sire," I interrupted. "I would be delighted to sit with you."

The five of us walked to the edge of the garden where the tall hedge cast a shadow over the grass. I contemplated my theories.

If the King had wanted his father dead, it was for the purpose of gaining the crown, right? Royal heirs had been slaying their fathers and each other for centuries. It was a tale as old as time. Yet from what I'd seen of him, the King didn't enjoy being King much.

Nor did he seem much of a killer.

Then again, neither did I, and I had blood fresh on my hands.

"You mustn't sit on the ground," the Lord Chamberlain snapped. "Wait here, we will erect a canopy for you."

"Beauregard, would you stop fussing over me." The King flopped to the ground, face buried in his arms. "Just go away!" he mumbled into the grass.

The Lord Chamberlain stood determinedly for a moment, then sighed and stalked back to the tables, pinching the bridge of his nose.

I almost relaxed. Almost.

Philip rolled onto his side, eyes squinted shut against the sun. "I hate everything," he said.

I watched him for a moment, then turned my gaze to the gaggle of nobles touring the garden. There was so much I didn't understand. "Why have the Duke here?" I asked slowly. "Why bother with any of this?"

"The Duc de Montpensier is the third son of the King of France," Philip explained. "Befriending him is the first step to befriending the King. The second is marrying his daughter."

His daughter. I thought about the girl, how she'd thanked me at the table. Having a Queen that viewed her people as more than bloody worms to work the soil didn't sound that bad.

"They're staying with us for sixteen days," said Philip. "We shall feast and dance and enjoy grand firework displays. I have two weeks to court her."

I didn't know what a firework was. I pictured a man with a silly hat juggling torches in the air.

"You like her?" I asked.

"Mr Murray, liking has nothing to do with this."

The girl stood alone in the garden, her fingertips trailing the petals of a white rose. "She's pretty," I said. "Can't see much of her through that dress, though." I chanced a fleeting glance his way and coughed. "Wonder how her arse looks."

"Such things matter not. Stout calves are all the rage now."

"Calves?" I repeated.

His eyes drooped shut. "Yes. A firm, sturdy set of calves signifies strict posture and fine nourishment. Frail, thin calves are a sign of weakness."

I twisted around in the grass, trying to get a good look at my own calf. It was nothing but a flat line from the back of my knee to my ankle. Certainly not stout.

Across the garden, I could see the Duke speaking with two of the other guests. His calves swelled beneath his thick stockings.

"Bollocks," I muttered.

He laughed. "What is it?"

I looked skeptically at his calves before answering. They seemed alright, I supposed, though I wasn't a very good judge. When I thought about fucking someone the last thing on my mind was calves.

"Oh, just re-thinking my worth." I gestured to my skinny calf.

"You could stuff your trouser legs," he suggested. "Give them a fuller appearance."

I scoffed, imagining the back of my legs padded and bulging out like the Duke's. "Fuck that."

"You're very expressive," he said.

"What," I said. "You don't curse?"

He shook his head, peeking out at me from the crook of his elbow. It reminded me of the first real conversation I'd had with him, lying under the hedge in the garden. His cheeks looked red, but that must've been the wine. A chuckle rose in my throat and I turned away.

"Why don't you go talk to her?" I asked, because if he stayed here with me another moment I feared what words might leave my mouth.

"I would not know what to say."

"You could walk over there and faint again," I said. "That's bound to start a conversation."

He appeared deep in thought for a moment, like he was actually considering it. Then he looked down the hill to the refreshment tables. Beauregard was staring directly at us.

I wanted to say something like, what's his problem, anyway? but held my tongue.

"Philip..." I said, trying to be careful. "Why does he not like me?"

Of course, the rational answer was that I was a dirty peasant lounging in the garden with the King, and this angered him. If I was some Earl of Whatever, it might ruffle my feathers too. But the look in his eye told me there was something deeper.

Something personal.

The King smiled softly. "I have a guess, but it's silly." Before I could respond he'd jumped to his feet. "Come on. Let's walk."

I got up slowly. "You sure you're up to it?"

"No. I may just faint." He threw himself dramatically against my chest and laughed. It was a bright, clear sound. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed like that.

Bordering the hedges was a row of thorny purple thistle, native to Scotland. I wondered if that was the King's mother's touch, and whether his father would have ever allowed it.

As we walked, Philip's fingers suddenly slipped through mine.

I jumped.

He was holding my hand. He was holding my hand he was holding my hand he was holding my hand-

Christ.

I tilted my head, trying to look at him. Trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.

"I would not want you to get lost," he said. My palms were clammy and I wanted nothing more than to run as far as I could out of the garden and never look back. "My father's young cousin once disappeared in here. He wasn't found till morning."

I took a breath to compose myself and attempted a weak smile. "I wouldn't get lost. I'm the gardener, remember?"

He seemed to grow bitter at that, for he did not look at me. "Then I suppose we're both liars, Mr Murray."

The guests turned as we approached. The men bowed and the ladies curtsied. I pretended they were bowing and curtsying to me.

"Your Majesty." The Duke's daughter smiled at him. "These flowers are beautiful." Her light eyes drifted with a glimmer of confusion to our hands, and then to me. "I'm sorry, sir, I haven't caught your name."

"He's my friend," Philip said.

Her smile tightened, an almost imperceptible motion.

Sweat beaded on my brow. "I have to go," I forced out. "I have to..." I left the words hanging in the air and spun, tearing my hand from Philip's.

I did not look back as I pushed my way through the guests. If he hated me now, or sent the guards to punish me for my insolence, I wouldn't care. Nothing could be as bad as standing there with them.

The Lord Chamberlain stood in place by the table as I passed, his beady eyes locked on mine. With lips tight together, he said not a word, only tipped up his chin and flared his nostrils.

The message was as clear as if he had thrown down his gauntlet at my feet.