Sweat beaded along my hairline.

The month of August was dying a slow death, with sweltering heat and incessant days of orange sun looming over my shoulders.

As punishment for my poor work ethic, I had been sent out every day for the past week to shear the long stalks of grass along the edge of the pasture. The other stable boys had disappeared hours ago on a town run, headed off to the tavern while I toiled away beneath the blaze of the sun.

In fact, I was quite certain they'd all forgotten I was still out here.

Bitterly, I opened the shears and hacked at another patch of grass. It grew so tall here, it nearly surpassed the rotting wooden fence that bordered the pasture. Hack. Hack. Hack. The broken stalks drifted haphazardly to the ground. I placed one between my lips like a pipe and wiped the sweat from my brow.

The heat was getting to me. Soon I would start imagining a tall, foamy beer balanced atop the fence. And maybe some naked ladies sprawled out in the grass.

Or naked Marquises with crystal cock pouches.

I shuddered.

Shears in hand, I tramped across the open pasture, hoping I could sneak a drink in the stables while everyone was gone. The horses had been left to graze, and I wove between them, stopping once to pet Brownie-Paulo.

My horse lifted his head, chewing a mouthful of grass slowly, and turned to nudge my shoulder. Well, I suppose he wasn't my horse, but I liked to pretend he was.

"Aye, boy," I murmured, giving his long neck a pat. "You're fond of me now, aren't ya?"

Brownie-Paulo nickered in reply.

Inside the stable, I bent down and cupped a handful of water from the trough to splash on my sunburnt cheeks. I didn't mind sharing water with horses; I preferred it to the grime-ridden kitchen tubs, anyhow.

I wet my face a few times, letting the water run down the sides of my neck beneath my shirt collar. The stable was quiet, peaceful. The scent of wood and fresh hay hung in the air. I liked working here, for the most part. The other stable grooms didn't give me trouble and I found horses often made better companions than humans. I hadn't crossed paths with any of the men from the servants' quarters, and for that I was glad. There was no telling how they would react to learning Rat Boy had moved up a rung.

A noise caught my ear as I raised a palmful of water to my lips, about to take a long-awaited drink. A hushed, distinctly feminine cry from the other side of the wooden wall. I tilted my head. There were no grooms in the stable, let alone a woman. I crept over to the tack room, wondering if a maid had taken refuge from the kitchens here to weep.

As I grew closer, I could hear the rhythmic thump against the wall, the blend of low grunts and soft gasps, and chided myself for being so stupid. Of course. One of the stable boys had snuck a whore in.

I peered around the corner, amused, and froze.

There she was in plain view, the blonde girl pinned to the wall of the tack room, her dress pulled down to expose her paper-white breasts and her skirts tangled up about her lover's waist. Her mussed golden locks hung like a mane over her bare shoulders as she threw back her head and clawed her nails up the dark skin of the stable master's back.

It took me a moment to recognize her in this wild, nirvanic state.

She was Lady Montpensier. The granddaughter of the King of France.

Philip's betrothed.

Her lips broke apart in a cry as Amadi cupped one round breast and squeezed the supple flesh. He stood with his back to me, holding her against the wall, face buried in her swanlike neck. I gaped at them for a moment before finding my senses and backing away slowly, as if retreating from a feral beast.

Henriette's eyes opened wide. They were pale blue, nearly gray, and set directly on me. All at once, she let out a terrible scream as if she had seen the Devil himself. I stumbled backward, knocking an empty barrel set in the doorway, and tumbled to the ground.

Amadi whipped around, his face contorted in horror as I scrambled to sit up. Within a second he had tugged up his trousers and was facing me, one arm positioned to shield the Lady's honor.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted. "I told you all to go!" His forehead shone with sweat and the chiseled muscles of his chest rose and fell with each breath.

I scooted backward on the dusty floor as he advanced on me. "I just came in for a sip of water," I choked out. "I swear-"

"You said no one would be here!" Henriette's strangled voice came from behind him. She gripped Amadi's arm like her life depended on it. "How could you?"

Amadi stood still for a moment, breathing hard, his fists balled at his sides. A moment later he let out a wordless shout of frustration. His right foot landed a swift kick to the barrel beside me and sent it rolling across the tack room.

"Because of you, my reputation shall be scorched forever." Henriette raised a hand as if to slap him, then let it drop into the folds of her skirts, quivering. "Oh, mercy! I'll be banished to a nunnery for the rest of my days."

Amadi stormed across the tack room, his eyes set on a large pitchfork propped against the wall. "By God, I'll kill this son of a bitch myself."

"You cannot kill him," Henriette interrupted before I had the chance to plead my case. Amadi's hand fell from the pitchfork and he turned to her, surprised. "I've seen him before. I... I recognize him."

"From the stable, you mean," Amadi said.

"Not just the stable." Her accent deepened as she spoke, as if she were losing confidence in her English. "He was... there when my father dined with the King." Her features grew strained. "And again... delivering a letter to my room."

Amadi let out a scoff and took a step closer to me with narrowing eyes. "What's going on? Who are you?"

"Look, let's all just calm down, alright?" I rose to my feet shakily, eying the back exit in case I had to make a run for it. "Have a sip of horse water, take a breather... no one has to die today."

"Tell me your name," the stable master demanded.

"It's Murray."

"Murray... that's right." A look of clarity passed over his expression. "You're the one the King recommended."

"The King!" A sharp wail burst from Lady Montpensier. "The King has planted him to follow me. He is a spy!" She buried her head in her hands.

"I'm not a spy," I groaned. "Bloody hell, what is it with you Frenchies calling me a spy?"

The blonde looked up, her brow stitched so tightly that three lines appeared across her forehead. "You know my brother Leopold. He spoke of you the night of the ball. I remember now, he wished... to see you there."

I smiled at the name Leopold, then cleared my throat dryly. "Your brother wished to see a lot of me."

Henriette pressed a slender hand to her heart. "You don't mean-"

"What does this have to do with anything?" Amadi cut in. His brown skin was smooth, his forehead shining with perspiration. The thick, coarse curls he kept cropped close to his scalp had begun to grow out in the past month, giving him a more boyish appearance. Still, he had an air of command about him. His momentary show of rage at being discovered was the first visible crack in his shield. "You're some sort of pervert, Murray? Spying on us this way?"

Oh, for the love of Christ. I straightened my posture and offered him my most convincing smile. "I wouldn't dream of spying on you, sir. I am but a poor soul, my only sin... being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, now." Amadi appeared to think this over carefully. "That doesn't account for all the time missing from work."

"I have a... condition," I lied. "It concerns..." I tried to think of something he wouldn't question. "Urination..."

His brow shot up. "Urination?"

"Yes." My mind raced through my brother Martin's textbook on medical conditions. He used to read the long list aloud to us when we were young, but I'd forgotten most of the complicated words. "Kidney stone," I said finally. "Very painful." I motioned with my hand to signify the size of the stone.

"Kidney stone, eh?" The stable master's brow twitched, and then his mouth collapsed into a scowl. "Am I really meant to stand here and believe this rubbish?" he shouted. "Do you take me for a fool? Well do you?"

"No, sir," I said, throwing a glance at the open pasture. Amadi followed my gaze, realizing my next move in a matter of seconds, but by then I was already sprinting out the back.

"Murray!" Amadi roared after me. "Don't run away when I'm talking to you, Murray!"

I was fast. In my lifetime, I had escaped about a thousand fistfights with my brothers and one dual to the death with a Duke.

I probably would have escaped the shirtless stable master with a pitchfork too, if I didn't slam into a hard body just around the corner.

Three royal guards in their blood-red uniforms stood poised outside the back of the stable. The one I'd crashed into let out a sputtering gasp and clutched the doorway for balance.

"Oh, sir!" I forced a breathless laugh as Amadi appeared by my side. "Thank God! I'm being chased by a madman."

The guard was a middle-aged man, his light hair beginning to gray, his round cheeks an unfortunate shade of red that made him look as though he'd been applying his wife's rouge.

In one gloved hand, he held a small folded paper - a cheaply printed leaflet, the kind one might find tacked to posts in London - and studied it before rounding his gaze on me. "Looks like him," he murmured.

I swallowed thickly.

"You, boy," the guard said. "Retrieve me the stable master."

With a slow smile, Amadi raised himself taller. "You are looking at him," he replied cooly. Something told me he enjoyed the look of surprise in the guard's eyes. "I cannot wait to hear what this concerns."

Once again, the guard consulted the leaflet, as if to be sure. "It concerns your stable hand here." He gestured to me. "Step back, please."

My heartbeat quickened as I sized up the three royal guards before me. The last time I'd been this close to a man in red uniform, I'd somehow become an unintentional killer. But now there were three of them. And I couldn't exactly brandish my knife in the middle of the courtyard.

"Murray?" Amadi was shaking his head in disbelief. "Will someone please tell me what is so important about Murray?"

The guard tucked the leaflet back into his jacket and gave a thin smile. "He is under arrest, sir."

🦢•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢

Dearest Mother. Today marks my seventh sunrise in this dark, wet cell I now call home. The rats have taken the smallest finger of my right hand, yet still I write, faithfully-

I crafted the letter in my head as I was herded into the castle.

Would the dungeon rats, no doubt starving for human flesh, even bother with my fingers and toes? Or would they go straight for my gut, gnawing through my insides until I was nothing but a mangled lump of meat?

The Great Hall was the grandest room in the royal castle. The long, gold-trimmed red carpet began at the foot of the main staircase and led directly to the throne, where three small steps elevated the King above even the tallest of men. The stone walls were vast and concave, creating an echo all throughout the empty chamber.

On his throne sat the King, dressed in his finest cloak and chestnut wig, coiling at his shoulders. His huge ruffled sleeves extended to his ringed knuckles, which he rapped against the arm of the throne as the guards brought me up.

"Sedition is a serious offense, boy," the head guard hissed in my ear while the other two dragged me along by my arms. I felt the spray of his spittle hit my jaw and twisted my head away, but he only gripped the nape of my neck, forcing it straight. "Kneel!"

I was slammed to the ground before I could even think, both arms twisted behind my back at an excruciating angle. Beside the throne stood Captain Fitzhugh, his long mustache curled up at the ends with some kind of oil.

I held my breath, teeth clenched, trying not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. "Bow to the King," the guard barked. The other two pushed my body down until the tip of my nose grazed the red carpet.

Fitzhugh spoke first. "This is him, Your Majesty. No doubt in it."

"His name is Murray. Mr Murray." I held my breath at the sound of his voice. That soft, low voice that left both a pit in my stomach and a flutter in my heart.

"Murray, you say? Sounds rather plain."

My protest rose like a burst of flame. It was my curse. The day I learned to hold my tongue would be the day it finally got cut out. "What is this about?" I shouted. "What am I charged with? I demand to know!"

The ruddy-cheeked guard let out a grunt and squatted, reaching for my head. But before he could touch me, the King shrugged his shoulders. "Show him. What harm can it do?"

Albeit reluctantly, the guard straightened up while the other two held my arms in place. He pulled the small folded leaflet from his jacket and threw it on the carpet before me.

I looked first to Fitzhugh, then to Philip. The dark circles beneath his eyes were thinly veiled with white powder. I stared at him, hoping he might meet my gaze, then withdrew in sad acceptance and let my eyes sink to the floor.

At the top of the leaflet, the heading read: THE DEATH OF ENGLAND.

The drawing showed two separate crowds, one with men in identical uniforms and polished shoes and the other with men in baggy clothes, some with boots and some with no shoes at all, holding the ropes of cattle and unsaddled horses, their faces scribbled dark to erase their individuality.

But those faces didn't matter to me. My gaze was locked on the face in the center of the page, the face of the boy with short, lightly inked hair and tall laced boots. The boy with the same sharp nose as mine, with the same tattered vest, with even a dark line drawn across his middle finger to resemble a ring.

I was almost flattered someone had gone through such effort to capture my likeness.

It was a shame the boy was drawn on a platform in the center of the crowd, one fist raised to the sky, and the other buried in the curls of a crowned severed head.