In the silky sheets of his four-poster bed, Philip arranged the set of wooden chess pieces while I stood barefoot by the balcony, my boots in one hand and my vest slung over my arm.

We were alone, still wearing the robes from the bathhouse. I wondered what new clothes they would give me. More than anything, I was glad to be rid of those filthy, damp socks.

Philip flipped over onto his stomach and patted the space beside him. "Come. We can play while we wait for breakfast."

I glanced over, biting back a grin. "Thought I wasn't allowed in the sacred royal bed."

"You are not allowed to sleep. You may sit. Besides, you were caked in five layers of dirt last night. Did you really expect me to just let you crawl in?"

"You crawled in with me," I muttered, taking a seat anyway.

"That was a... mistake." He looked down at the chess board. "An impulsive act of drunken fear. It will not happen again."

"I never said I minded."

He toyed with one of the wooden pieces. His hair was dry now, his curls back to their usual fluffy state. The robe extended just past his knees, and behind him, his ankles were crossed and swaying slowly in the air.

I took a long look at his calves, which were currently on display. I still wasn't sure what was so great about calves anyway. A calf alone was about as arousing as an elbow. An entire leg, on the other hand, might be more inviting.

I adjusted my position so that one bony knee would poke out.

"The objective is to advance your pieces across the board and capture mine," Philip explained. "Each piece moves differently and obeys a different set of rules."

"I like the horse one," I said.

"That is your knight," he told me. "A vital part of your army. Guard it closely."

My gaze swept over the board, landing on a tall, sleek piece with the shape of a cross upon its crown. "Can I move the king?"

"Not yet." He smiled. "Only a pawn or a knight to begin."

I selected one of the two knights and placed it in the center of the board.

His brow furrowed. "No... that's not-"

Before I could tell him what a waste of time this was, Charles walked in with a wide silver tray stacked high with plates of steaming food. "Breakfast, Your Majesty," he announced.

There were muffins, bowls of fruit, scones, hard-boiled eggs, thin slices of meat, and in the center, a china teapot. My stomach rumbled.

Charles dabbed his brow with a white handkerchief before leaning forward to pour tea from the pot into a small cup. The butler was a rotund man, with a bloated face and ruddy cheeks. He cleared his throat and looked at me. "Tea or wine, sir?"

"Um..." I looked to Philip for guidance.

The King lifted his teacup from its saucer and took a small sip. "A pitcher of water for Mr Murray, please, Charles," he said.

"Right away, sire." The butler bowed.

Philip leaned closer once he was gone. "My apologies, I forgot. I shall have Charles offer it from now on."

From now on. I wondered if that meant I would be joining him for breakfast again. I wanted so desperately to ask, but I was scared to push my luck.

It wasn't every day a hall boy with a wage of two pence a year dined with a king.

Hesitantly, I watched him prepare a smaller plate with a sample of everything. Five strawberries, two eggs cut in half, four strips of ham, and two thick, crescent-shaped pastries.

"What are those things?" I asked.

He giggled. "Croissants. Try one."

The flaky bread was slick with butter and soft enough for my fingertips to leave imprints as I accepted it gingerly. It smelled delicious. Philip smiled as I scarfed it down in three bites.

"Thank you," I mumbled around the food. I realized I was no better than a beggar in the streets, tugging on someone's trouser leg and holding up my palms for a few coins.

He nibbled on a strawberry, looking down again. His cheeks were as rosy as the fruit between his fingers. "I'm glad you like it. You can-" He gestured to the tray. "Have anything you'd like."

I wasn't one to pass up food. I busied myself with munching on a second croissant while looking through the assortment of muffins. Some were the color of sand, others a rich brown and a few dotted with berries.

Charles returned with the pitcher of water, trailed by Beauregard, two Gentlemen of the Chamber, and a servant.

Beauregard's thin mouth immediately formed a scowl as he saw me.

I ripped a chunk out of the croissant with my teeth.

"Sire." Charles dipped his head before setting the pitcher on the table.

"I've never known you to drink water, Your Majesty," the Lord Chamberlain observed cooly. "Is this another of the many new things you're introducing to your life?"

"The water is for Mr Murray." Philip cut a small square of ham and lifted it to his lips. "My guest." I gave Beauregard a sultry grin.

Uneasily, the Lord Chamberlain loosened his cravat. "I think it is time you got dressed, hm?" He made his way to the King's side. "You shall catch a cold sitting about like this."

Philip gave a mumble of protest, his mouth full, as Beauregard guided him to his feet. I popped a grape in my mouth.

"But we're not finished breakfast yet," Philip whined.

Beauregard halted in the center of the floor. "It is not all lounging about, being King, you know," he said. "We are already behind schedule." He pulled Philip's robe open abruptly and let the material slip to his feet.

The King shivered, naked for the third time that day.

"Shall I disrobe as well?" I asked, fingering the open neckline teasingly.

The Lord Chamberlain held up a hand. "That will not be necessary."

With a light chuckle, I dug around in the fruit bowl, knocking a few grapes out of the way before settling on a juicy blackberry. I got a thrill from the men's disapproving stares as I rummaged through the King's discarded breakfast.

I strolled over, rolling the berry between my fingers, as Philip plopped down sulkily in a velvet chair.

One of the Gentlemen ran a comb through his hair and snipped a few stray locks while the servant prepared his morning shave. He carried over a gleaming straight razor and sharpened the blade along a strip of leather before blotting cream across the King's jaw.

Philip had barely any facial hair at all. His chest was bare, an empty white canvas, free of any blemishes or scars. The gentle slope of his pectorals peaked in two rosy buds and fell to a soft round belly.

My gaze traced the line of hair below his navel to a light patch of orange between his hips.

Careful.

He leaned back ever so slightly, eyes closed, further exposing his neck. The servant swiped the razor downward in quick, precise strokes, clearing away any trace of hair.

Images flashed through my mind.

Spurting blood. Red grass. A crumpled body, fighting for one last breath.

I flinched as the blade swiped down his throat.

Don't panic. Don't panic.

I didn't want Philip to die. He was different, in some way. I didn't give a rat's arse whether anyone else I'd met in that bloody castle got their lifeline severed in some back alley or tripped off a balcony.

Not him. He was almost too beautiful, too precious to die.

Philip's eyes opened and I realized how intensely I'd been staring at him. I pressed the blackberry past my lips with a smirk. "May I be of assistance, sire?"

He didn't answer at first. The servant patted down his face with a cloth and applied a splash of perfume to the sides of his neck. "My... my stockings usually go on first," he mumbled.

"These?" I lifted a pair of thin, silky white stockings from the clothes Beauregard was laying on the daybed. Shirt, waistcoat, cloak, summer knee-breeches. The older man smiled as he added a lacy cravat strikingly similar to his own.

"Yes." Philip's thighs squeezed together.

I poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher and took a slow sip before slinging one stocking over my shoulder and getting down on one knee before him.

"Oh, you don't have to..." He trailed off. "Do that."

"It's no trouble." I lifted his heel gently, noting the graceful curve of his ankle. "The faster we get you dressed, the faster I get my clothes."

He let out a little gasp as I pulled his foot up to my chest. Beauregard turned his scornful gaze on me. I smiled, enjoying the weight of everyone's eyes, and fit Philip's toes into the silk before slowly sliding it up along his leg.

The stockings came up just below his knees, where two golden bands would be tied for added decoration. I leaned over to get them from the daybed. Philip's foot pressed against my abs.

The Lord Chamberlain leaned close to the King to speak in a grating whisper. "I beg of you to stop this."

At the bedside table, Charles flashed a cheeky grin. "Nothing his father didn't do," he commented.

The sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the room as Beauregard sent the breakfast tray flying.

I rose to my feet, subconsciously moving in front of Philip.

"Get out." Beauregard's fist wrapped around the edge of the table. His voice was steely calm, his knuckles strained white. "I demand a private audience with His Majesty."

I looked down at Philip. His full lips formed a strict line.

"Are you deaf, boy?" Beauregard whirled to face me. "I said leave!"

"I don't take orders from you."

At the sound of my voice, the King looked up. He nodded once, his signal that it was alright.

I stepped around the broken glass, my bare feet wet by the pooling mix of water and wine. Charles tilted his head at me as I reached for my boots.

"Follow me," he murmured, his voice little more than a breath.

I ducked after him. He led me out into the hall to the nearest door to the left, a small little room no bigger than a closet.

My eyes narrowed. "What is this place?"

"Lord Chamberlain's quarters, sir. We should be able to find you something nice."

Beauregard's clothes, I thought sourly. Great.

A trickle of unease made its way through my body as he turned the nob. It felt wrong being there in a way. Too personal. Too... intimate.

Unlike Geoff's office in the slaughterhouse, the space was orderly, not a drawer ajar, not a corner untucked on the small bed.

I glanced over the stack of pamphlets and little books lining Beauregard's desk while Charles selected a few garments from the wardrobe.

"He sleeps here, then?" I asked, to break the uncomfortable silence. "Right next to the royal chamber?"

Charles looked over his shoulder. "But of course. He must be at the King's beck and call at all times. This room was built into the hall specifically for him."

That caught my attention. "For Beauregard?"

"Yes." The butler hesitated, as if deciding if he should elaborate. "His Majesty's father ordered the redesign during his reign. That must have been some, oh, twenty years ago."

Twenty years ago. Beauregard would have been about Geoff's age. It was hard to imagine him as a young man.

"Well then." Charles took a deep breath and patted the clothes he'd laid out. "I shall leave you to dress." He reached out in passing, as if to touch my shoulder, then dropped his hand back to his side. "Tread carefully, chap."

Despite the heat in the cramped room, I shivered. "What do you mean?"

"The Lord Chamberlain seeks to protect His Majesty at all costs. Anyone he deems a threat... it won't end well for."

"A threat?" I swallowed thickly. "How am I a threat? I'm just a peasant. A nobody."

Charles lifted his handkerchief to blot one glistening temple before he spoke. "I spent forty minutes in His Majesty's chamber last night. We were trying to decide which flavor tart you would enjoy. I told him, 'sire, the boy must be half-starved to death, he shall be glad for any tarts at all'. Alas, His Majesty carried on, driving himself mad with nerves." He lowered his hand and rested it against his chest. "I've known that boy his entire life. He's never even looked at the girls in Court. I dare say he's enthralled by you."

"By me? But-"

"I must go." Charles reached for the doorknob, then turned back for a split second. "I trust you'll keep what I told you in confidence."

I nodded listlessly, my mind too crowded to process his words.

"Oh, and Murray..." Charles threw me a smirk from the hallway. "Stay the course. You may just get your own room someday."

"What-" I started before he shut the door in my face.

I let out a heavy sigh and turned toward the pile of clothes. A small candle on the desk was my only source of light as I dressed. I donned first the starched white shirt, then the too-long trousers and finally my own vest, the only thing that fit me quite right.

As I crouched down to lace up my boots, my eyes fell on something poking out from beneath the mattress. A slip of parchment.

I might not have noticed it if the room were more cluttered. This tiny detail seemed to be the only thing out of place. Compulsively, I reached forward and pulled it out.

Before my eyes could settle on the first word, I forced myself to turn away. What was I thinking? Suppose someone walked in and found me searching through the Lord's Chamberlain's belongings?

It was probably something boring. An old financial record. I gave the parchment a quick glance, prepared to tuck it back under the mattress.

A phrase caught my eye. My only Sin...

The page was written in an extravagant, swirling cursive, darkened with ink blots and entire lines scribbled out. I held it up close to the candle and squinted to make out the words.

As I sit here in my eternal Solitude, I write to you in Faith that my wretched Soul has been shown Mercy. God has taken away the Burden of my most monstrous Sin... my only Sin...

Beauregard, wretched? I frowned and scanned further down the page.

May one day I Burn or Retire to a happy Paradise... I shall think of you always, my Beloved One whom I so grappled with the urge to Destroy...

My breath came in unsteady gulps. I clutched the bedpost as my hand trembled.

But how could I have? From where I might have summoned the courage to do this thing, to my love, to my only Master in this life and the next? Master, how I loathe and love you, how I curse and worship. You were to be my last deed on this earth, yet I find myself alone with my shame and grieving heart-

A loud knock sounded from the door.

I flung the paper and pushed myself to my feet.

As I reached for the doorknob, my right foot came down on the untied lace of my boot. I let out a yelp as I slammed into the edge of the wooden desk.

It was fitting, in a way, how the candle tipped onto its side and rolled to the floor, extinguishing the weak flame.

The room plunged into darkness. I could have found that candle, lit a new match - I could have lit a hundred matches for a hundred candles, yet the world around me wouldn't have felt any less dark.

Dark, lonely, terrifying.