For a moment all I could do was stare.

I stared at the dark pool of blood circling the boy's boots - my boots, by the looks of them - I stared at the beheaded body laying on the platform. An unmistakably royal body, dressed to the nines in a buttoned waistcoat and ermine-trimmed cloak. Even in this roughly inked sketch, the idea was obvious.

The King was dead.

Killed by a mob of peasants.

Killed by me.

I looked up, my lips dropping open instinctually to speak, to protest, to clear my name. To insist I had never seen the drawing before in my life. But for once, my tongue refused to budge.

"Yesterday, a wagon en route to the castle was intercepted by a band of outlaws," Fitzhugh said. "The goods were stolen and the wagon set aflame. Death of England was carved into one of the steed's flank."

"You mean to tell me this picture has inspired some sort of anarchist movement?" the King asked.

"I cannot tell you with certainty, sire. My men are investigating it." Fitzhugh paused to stroke his beard. "I assure you anyone who participates in such acts shall be put to death."

Put to death. I would be put to death.

"That's not fair!" I yelled, struggling desperately against the gaurds' grip on my arms. "I didn't ask to be drawn in that thing!"

"Oh, spare us this noise," Fitzhugh grumbled. He whirled his body towards us. "The boy has just confessed to being the one in the drawing. Throw him where he belongs, lads."

The guard grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved his gloved hand into my mouth to silence me. "My deepest apologies, sire. He's quite the feisty one."

I gagged as his fingers hit the back of my throat and bit down instinctually. The guard let out a howl and attempted to retract his hand, while the other two stood back in a mix of confusion and horror.

I bit down as hard as I could. After a moment of wild flailing, he swung his free hand and landed a blow to my face. My jaw snapped open and he toppled backward onto his arse in the middle of the floor.

"Captain, who is this man?" the King questioned calmly.

"Sir John at your service, sire," the guard panted from the ground. His face was a red ball of fire.

The King's usually warm eyes were now cold as ice and betrayed no emotion. "He is an embarrassment to the entirety of the Royal Guard," he said. "Get this nonsense out of my sight."

With a low breath, the Captain flicked two fingers toward the guards and then gestured to the door. The pressure on my arms released and I slumped pathetically to the ground. Sir John struggled to his feet with a ragged breath.

"What of the boy, Your Majesty?" Fitzhugh asked.

I didn't look up. I couldn't bear to see Philip's face when he ordered me to the dungeon. I let out a dazed whimper and shut my eyes against the carpet.

"I wish to question him more extensively," the King replied after an agonizing silence. "Leave him."

Leave me? I lifted my head at his words.

"Your Majesty..." Fitzhugh combed through his gray beard. "Is that wise... considering what is depicted-"

"It is wise if I decide it to be," the King snapped.

The Captain's brow twitched in silent protest, but he simply turned and followed a limping Sir John down the long red carpet. I lay there, crumpled up with my legs bent beneath me, alone with just the King. On any other occasion, I would have been ecstatic at this arrangement, but now my stomach twisted and clenched, a knotted rope pulling in opposite directions.

The King stood, red cloak trailing his heels, and stepped to the edge of the small carpeted stairs. His heeled shoes were beige and bejeweled with tiny black and red gems. The bands of white stockings, tied just below his knees, flowered with silver bows that swished with each step.

He was dressed much older than I'd ever seen him, like a true King, yet his face still looked so undeniably youthful, so painfully pure.

"So this is how we meet again." He looked down at me cooly. "You might imagine my surprise when the last time I saw you was standing over my decapitated corpse." He tapped the leaflet with the small rounded end of his scepter.

A strangled breath escaped me. "Philip, use your head," I pleaded. "I didn't-"

The scepter slammed to the ground in a sudden sharp explosion, an inch from my hand. I was shocked silent as he turned away, my heart burrowed in my throat.

He did not face me for many minutes. I wanted so desperately to stand up, but I forced myself to stay down. I waited without a sound, teeth chattering against my jaw, wishing he would say something, anything, and save me from my anguish. I would have preferred a cold prison cell to the sight of his turned back, his stooped shoulders and quivering hand clenching the scepter.

At last he turned, one finger outstretched, and cast his gaze upon me with such a cold and majestic fury like nothing I had ever seen before. "How dare you call me that?"

My heart nearly stopped.

I was the object of the King's wrath.

A small, cursed part of me reveled in pride. I was the object of the King's wrath.

He was looking at me with hatred, but he was looking at me.

"I trusted you," he said. "I called you my friend. I told you my most painful secrets. I let you in my bed..." He paused, a small glint of sadness flickering in his eyes. "In my heart..."

A stabbing pain twisted in my chest. Please just be angry, I thought. Anger I could bear. Anger I welcomed.

"Your Majesty," I murmured, lowering my head. "May I speak?"

He hesitated, then lifted his chin to signal approval.

"Your Majesty, why would I-" I swallowed with difficulty. "Why would I draw myself standing over the body of my King? What kind of idiot would incriminate himself like that?"

"It matters not who drew it. You appear to be the face of it. This movement wherein it is acceptable to call for my head."

I thought back on the song the drunken men sang in the servants' quarters. God rot the King. Still him in his bed. Next I thought of the celebration that took place after Philip III met his doom in the courtyard. And lastly, I thought of Captain Fitzhugh saying, They must be whipped into submission.

I raised my eyes. "Your Majesty, no peasant drew this," I said.

The King blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"That-" I jutted my chin at the leaflet on the ground. "Is not a threat. It's a warning."

The determination began to crumble from his brow. He's realizing I'm right.

"That right there is someone in power who thinks you're about to lose it all to us," I said. "And he thinks I'm the reason why."

The King stepped closer to me, and I drew in a breath. His hands trembled slightly and he quickly moved them up to adjust his vest. I waited, still kneeling on the floor, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Auden," he said.

"Philip." My throat burned raw as I spoke his name. "I would never hurt you."

He stared down at me.

"I would never hurt you. Don't you know that?"

I inched closer, just enough to catch a hint of his perfume from a distance. It reminded me of something familiar, something from home. Something safe.

I loved him.

Was it utterly mad to think that? Probably.

I wanted to tell him.

I wanted to whisper, I love you, I would die for you a thousand times over. I would force a blade through my own heart before harming a single hair on your head.

Stupid. He would expect me to love him, of course. The way any good subject loved his King. He'd been hearing the whole nation declare their undying devotion to him since the day he was born. My words would mean nothing.

And so, I said nothing.

"Auden," he said again. "Get up."

Obediently, I climbed to my feet.

His lips opened as if to speak, but he only stood there, mouthing silent words and staring off into space. The soft line of his jaw flexed once before he forced it to still. "It seems the whole world is against us."

He was right. How could we ever be seen together again? Oh look, there goes His Majesty and the boy that's going to murder him. What a joke.

I twisted my father's ring round and round on my finger, till I felt it slicing into my flesh. All my life, I'd been anonymous to the world. I'd tended our farm and gone into London once a week to trade my eggs. No one, rich or poor, gave me a second glance. Part of me missed those days.

Now my likeness was inked on some propaganda piece being distributed to God knew how many people.

"This is only the beginning," the King muttered. He paced the top of the small steps, the coiled ends of his chestnut wig bouncing. "If the rebellions do not cease, France will be the least of our troubles. We could face civil war."

He stopped and turned to me, suddenly looking white and green in the face all at once.

"I wish I'd never been born," he said. "Then it wouldn't be my fault when this country goes to rot."

I held my hand out, scarcely allowing myself to breathe, and approached him like a spooked horse. He watched me cautiously but did not move as I touched his arm. "I know you believe in God's will," I murmured. "If God chose you to rule England, it was for a reason."

"Perhaps He chose me to damn us all."

I wet my lips nervously. "I don't think-"

"I mean, everyone hates me," he burst out. "The Court hates me. The people hate me. My own father hated me." His eyes flicked to the ceiling with a twisted scowl. "Perhaps God hates me too. Perhaps that's what it's been all along."

"I don't hate you," I said, then forced my mouth shut again.

He stopped in his spiral and looked at me. His eyes softened.

"Even if... God hates you..." I stumbled over the words. "You still have me."

His brow contorted and his mouth quivered as if tears were about to spring into his eyes. "Auden," he whispered, "I don't hate you either."

I reached up to his face but he flinched away as if I would burn him.

"No, this has to end now." His voice shook. "Look what people think of us! Of you." He threw a hand in the direction of the leaflet. "We'll destroy us both if we don't stop."

I nodded. I couldn't tell him what I really thought. That I would gladly destroy myself for the chance to love him.

His eyes lowered and he shook his head. "This is all my fault. I never should have asked your name in the first place."

My heart was hammering in my chest, but I managed a weak smile. "Too late," I said. "You did."

"Auden-" With a sudden breath he reached for my face and kissed me once, hard, almost violently. Desperate hands followed the kiss, grasping at each other, clawing to be closer. I kissed him like I might never get the chance again. At last he pulled himself away and panted raggedly. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I don't know what came over me."

"Philip. Don't ever apologize for kissing me." I clung to his arms, desperate to touch him again, to hold him after the week we'd spent apart. I hated his stupid wig and the stupid powder all over his beautiful face. I wanted my Philip back, in just a linen shirt with his red curls free, I wanted our roles in the world to go away and leave us alone, just me and my angel.

"Auden, we're damned," he whispered.

I said nothing, just wrapped my arms around him, feeling his cheek hit my chest and his body shudder. I turned my gaze up to the high ceiling of the throne room, where white pillars disappeared into crests of gold. The room was magnificently tall, and I was so small.

Yet I kept looking up, praying that on the slight chance God was still on my side, He would help me now.