We stole each day in the light like thieves.

For the rest of August and early September we took private suppers and horseback rides in the country. Philip read books to me in the garden and took me to the high field to see fireworks. The Court watched colors explode in the star-speckled sky while I lay in the King's lap and ate chocolate cake. We chose the courtiers we liked best to sit next to us, to sprawl out in the grass in their cream-colored breeches and suck icing from Philip's perfect fingers.

I did not meet their eyes. Better a lapdog than a street mutt. The words I thought over and over as I dug my nails into the meat of my palm until blood welled up. Better a lapdog than a street mutt.

As a lapdog I ate duck and rabbit and cheese and bathed in saccharine opulence. I felt drunk all the time, even when my glass was empty. I laughed at supper when nothing of humor had been said. They pulled me away and roughed up my collar with a sneer that said, Don't forget where you came from.

And some days I almost did. Almost forgot the streets and the filth and rot. Then I would wake up gasping at night because I had just seen my mother with blood pouring from her eyes or a mob of peasants holding a noose for me.

Traitor. Murderer. Devil.

Philip would hold me until the tears stopped and press our scabbed palms together. Shh, Auden. It's alright. I'm here.

He would kiss my eyelids and the bow of my lips. We slept in a tangle of limbs, shrouded by the canopy curtain.

The King's closest circle excused his disinterest in women with a heart-throbbing tale of his infatuation with Henriette of France. Philip wrote letters to her weekly. Composed songs. Sent gifts.

He is so enraptured, they say, he will not bed a single woman until the day they wed!

Philip became known as a gentle king, a stark contrast to his father. This new young king preferred wine to ale, picnic lunches to hunting trips. He arrived in the center of London in his white-and-gold carriage and bejeweled horses with great plumes atop their heads. He gave baskets of bread out to the people.

Philip the Bread-Bearer, they called him.

No one on Council was particularly pleased with his curious displays of generosity, but their complaints were little more than murmurs in the hall. Clarence Scott, Bishop of Norwich, wrote that His Majesty was 'bending to the will of the poor' and 'making a mockery of the strong fortitude of the Crown'. He was expelled from Court.

Philip set me up in a little room with a gray bed and two dirty windows overlooking the courtyard. "I'm sorry it's so plain," he said as my weight sank heavily into the mattress. "I thought it would be better for you- something more like you're used to."

I said nothing. I knew what he meant. I couldn't keep sleeping in his bed.

He crossed the room and gave my forehead a chaste kiss. "Auden, it's better this way. For both of us. There's been... talk."

I said nothing still. My throat had closed up.

He stared down at me. At last I could not bear the weight of his eyes and looked at his hands instead, loose at his sides. He only wore two rings, one on his first and one on his smallest finger. Emerald and Opal. I felt so pathetic. If he had unbuttoned his breeches and pressed his cock to my lips, I would have got down on my knees and let him fuck my throat.

Better a lapdog than a street mutt.

"I am... worried for you," he murmured.

My head shot up. "Why?"

"The dreams, the drinking. Auden." He sat beside me and I winced at the sudden closeness. "I blame myself. I believe all this is entirely too much for you. For anyone of..." He stopped and pinched his lips together.

I knew he was struggling for the right words, something that wouldn't offend me. I didn't care to help him this time.

His low voice punctured my veins and throbbed in my skull. "Perhaps you should go home."

He doesn't want you anymore, street mutt. Roach. Devil.

Philip pressed on, like one lone soldier against an army. "You seemed... happier there. Out of the city. I could send you funds-"

"Oh, bugger me." I slammed my face into my palms and collapsed on the bed. Scrubbed my face until it was red. "Stop offering me your money." He stared at me like I'd just struck him. "If there is one thing you can do for me, it's that."

"It's not an insult, Auden. I care for you."

"I don't wish to be cared for."

"Then care for yourself!" he yelled. "By Christ, I shouldn't have to worry that you're going to waste away the moment I stop putting food in front of you!"

He wrenched himself up and opened the door, slamming it behind him. I pulled my knees up to my chest and let my boots leave smears on the drab sheets. Fuck you, Your Majesty. Fuck you to hell.

After a moment he cracked the door again. "Come tonight. Don't wait for a page. The footman will let you in." And the door was slammed once more.

I had half a mind not to go at all but I couldn't sleep without him beside me, soft and warm and holding me, restoring me. My one solace was growing more dangerous by the day.

My feet carried me to the window where I sat and watched the men trimming the hedges in the garden, backs dark with sweat, shoulders stooped. I suddenly felt like a prisoner in the dungeon, watching freedom through bars.

Better a lapdog than a street mutt.

Come nightfall I watched torches flicker in that same garden and shrieks of laughter rise up to the King's balcony. The ladies of Court were enjoying the night breeze, stripping down to their shifts to splash in the fountain. I sat in bed with a pitcher of mulled wine and Philip frowned as I slowly drained it.

"I'm going to build us a house," he told me.

I laughed into my fifth glass.

"I'm serious." He rose and stood by the balcony doors. "It shall be our own little house snug deep in the wood." I imagined a bed of fur blankets and fat coils of smoke rising in the air. "What shall we call it? The hunting lodge."

"You don't hunt," I said.

"I'll start."

I lay back and watched his naked reflection warp in the glass. After a long while he came and lay next to me and kissed me very gently, and then he turned so he was no longer facing me. I curled up behind him, nose nuzzled in the crook of his neck and hands grazing his belly.

I felt I should apologize for earlier. But I was waiting for him to first.

"Goodnight," he said quietly.

My heart sank to the depths of my stomach. It was happening. I was losing him. I would be tossed out soon. Back to the streets.

I laid a kiss on his temple where his curls of copper met his skin. His complexion, usually pale, was now the color of peaches from the days spent in the sun. I thanked God he could not see my face for already tears had formed.

"Goodnight, my darling," I said. That was it.

I had a fleeting thought that if I just stayed awake, horror could not wrack my mind tonight. I tried, but my eyelids sank lower and lower until I was swaddled tight in the arms of sleep.

Later I dreamed that I returned to my little room, head spinning from the wine. I dreamed that I took off my boots and drew aside the sheets. In my bed, in a pool of black blood, lay the headless body of a rat.

I dreamed that I sank to my knees and threw up.

I don't remember waking.

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

The Duc de Montpensier arrived in London a week before the wedding. The Court held a grand ball to welcome him and followed with six days of entertainment. Feasts of roast swan, firebreathing in the night, dazzling opera.

Henriette arrived in a red carriage on the fourth day. She was kept apart from the King, needing to be inspected by the physician. The wedding had been thrown together rather hastily. Trouble was brewing between Spain and France, and King Henry of France wished for as many allies as possible.

And so, after a long history of warfare and hatred, England and France were shaking hands.

On the last morning before the wedding, Charles brought tea and tarts to the privy chamber.

All the Gentlemen of the Chamber sat round, the young man with the mole, Elias Limsey, a few page boys. One boy, looking no older than twelve, puffed from a pipe. We sat in silence, each long pour from the china teacup deafening. Philip watched with glazed-over eyes.

"I should like to be alone now," he decided suddenly.

While the others shuffled out, Limsey paused boldly before the King and swept one foot forward to accentuate his presence. "Till the eve, Your Majesty," he smiled, dropped into a bow, and strutted away very proud of himself.

One by one, they left the room until only Charles remained, humming to himself as he tidied up the teacups. Philip watched him with thinly veiled annoyance.

The butler stopped once to blot his brow with a handkerchief. I wondered if once the weather cooled, he would stop sweating so much, or if he sweat all year round. "More tea, sire?" he asked.

"No," Philip said.

"Biscuit? Croissant?"

Philip waved his hand in dismissal.

"An old man's wisdom?"

Philip lifted his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

Charles swallowed a little, the loose flesh about his neck quivering. He clutched the handkerchief in one fist and glanced at the open chair Elias Limsey had left.

"Sit," Philip said.

The butler obeyed. He let out one slow breath, his gaze fixed on the uneaten breakfast. "Enchantment... only takes one so far," he said slowly. "Young belles age, amorous desires wane... it is friendship that prevails. Holds two together."

A long pause. I searched for something to say, but came up empty.

"My wife Florence and I... we never did have children. It was simply not God's will for us. At times it put a great strain on our marriage. However-" He squeezed the handkerchief. "We always had friendship."

"Where is Florence now?" Philip asked tentatively. My gaze traveled between them, fingernails sinking deeper into the raw flesh along my palm.

"Oh, she passed many years ago." Charles raised the handkerchief to his neck, then lowered it just slightly, pressing it to the base of his throat. "You were still a child."

"I never knew you were married."

"Well, it was not something I felt appropriate to discuss with you. I dealt with it in my own way." He looked again at the table and then away, as if ashamed. "Gluttony."

Philip leaned forward in the armchair and grasped his hand. Their hands looked similar, both that veiny pale, one smooth and one wrinkled with age. "You are my friend, Charles." Then he stood and embraced him.

My heart felt light and heavy all at once, watching them. I missed my mother, and for the first time in my life, I missed my father too. Not mine. Not the man who hit his wife and declared I was not his. A father. I missed a father.

When Philip pulled away the butler had tears in his eyes, which he wiped with his damp handkerchief. "I share this with you because..." He suddenly flashed a look at me. "I don't want you to give this up. What you have."

Philip twisted back to face me. I forced a tiny cracked smile, something like lighting a candle and holding it out to him, saying take it, don't blow it out.

"I cannot say I fully understand it, but I think you have what Florence and I had. That can take you very far." Charles looked down at his lap, played with the lace trim of his handkerchief. "I wish to share one more thing with you, Your Majesty. When I came to work for your father, he was much older than you are now. There are those... here... who will tell you to keep all things the same. They, like I, acquired a position under him and wish to retain it. But I can tell you he was not a peaceful man. One should surround himself with those that bring him peace."

I thought of our imaginary hunting lodge, with the fur blankets and chimney puffing smoke. Peaceful.

"My father," Philip said. "He was ill, wasn't he? At the end. He drank so much. Shut himself up in here." He gazed about and suddenly crossed his arms around himself, as if the room was haunted.

"His Majesty's afflictions are not for me to comment on," Charles said. "However, it was I who brought him the drink each day, and he looked no happier after finishing it than before." He took a breath, paused for half a moment. "It is a... shame how he went, but it is no longer his time. It is yours. Remember that."

The day in the courtyard. White fingers around the scepter. One pillar of the balcony loose, then all of it crumbling. Falling. Blood dripping.

I reached for the wine. Gripped the teapot instead.

"Auden?" Philip whispered.

I poured myself a cup of hot tea and took it all in a gulp. It did nothing to clear my mind. Falling. A dead king. Broken pillars. A smile.

"A shame," I agreed.

"I always held faith that you would one day sit upon the throne," Charles told the King. "And now, I want to promise you one thing. If I can give you nothing else, you shall have, until the day I die, my utmost loyalty."

Philip looked at his hands. "That means very much to me."

"I have no title, no power," the butler said. Another look at me. "But at times it is those who hold the least power that prove most important." He raised his hand and caressed Philip's cheek, hand trembling as if the King's skin was glass he feared he might break.

"Are you lonely?" Philip asked, leaning into his palm. "No wife, no children? Wouldn't you like a family?"

"Every day," Charles answered lightly. "But another marriage would not fulfill me. Your father survived three marriages. Three unhappy marriages. I trust you've seen the result of that yourself."

"And now I'm to be married." He spoke solemnly, the usual woeful hitch in his voice gone. "He never once prepared me for this day. Only told me that our union with France should bring great fortune and I should not expect love. Should I wish to be loved, he said, get a hound."

I laughed. Charles squeezed his hand. "Perhaps the only thing capable of loving him was a hound, hm?"

The butler rose, dropping the King's hand to his lap. Once I had reveled in the moment that Philip and I should be left alone, but now I dreaded it. Dreaded the silence sure to follow.

"Oh, and about your father, sire." Charles kept his back to us, stacking teacups on the breakfast tray. "Do not let his cruel nature fool you. Even he was not without his companions."

"The whores," Philip said.

A light smile lifted Charles' round cheeks. "That is one word for it, I suppose."

I felt a chill come over me. I stood as the butler bowed to leave. I wanted to follow him, but something forced me to turn back. Philip sat in the armchair, eyes empty once more. I went to him and stood by his side. This might be the last moment we had like this. Once he was married, he would take breakfast with his wife. Little fruit platters, perhaps. Something dainty for them to share in bed together.

"Philip," I whispered. At that moment, no other name for him seemed fitting.

His eyes lifted. Honey-amber and glassy tears. The sun over the lake.

I sank to embrace him. I slipped to my knees before the armchair and buried my face in his shoulder. He stooped above me, and I felt like a small child again, tucking myself into my mother when I was scared. "I want you to be happy."

Philip pressed his forehead to mine. "I am happy when I am with you."

I kissed him on the mouth, left him closing his eyes and leaning into me, and rose steadily. Clasped his hands together in mind. "We'll find a way, alright? We just have to want it."

"I want it," he whispered. Low and thick.

"I want it too." The words crawled up my throat and slashed through my skin on the way out. I had a horrible feeling inside me. Like a monster in the night, waiting to strike. I felt the urge to hold him close, to protect him, but from what? From me?

"We still have tonight," he told me. "And there will be nights after. Surely Her Majesty will be of ill temper sometimes."

I smiled. "I am sure you will be of ill temper too sometimes."

He grinned and I squeezed his knuckles before straightening. That sick feeling was back in my belly. I bowed and hurried down the hall, searching for a plump man holding a silver tray. I caught the butler near the staircase. For a man so round, he moved fast.

"Charles!"

"Well, Murray, have you gotten your own room yet?" He spoke playfully, but I shivered at the reminder of our conversation in the Lord Chamberlain's quarters.

"I have." The little gray room with dark windows.

"Excellent." He patted my shoulder, still walking. "Not quite beside His Majesty, but you have time."

I stopped mid-stride. "You speak of Beauregard."

With a small breath, Charles' amicable demeanor turned uneasy. He slowed his pace. "Take care whose name you utter in this hall."

The hall outside the King's chambers was littered with scurrying page boys, lined with stoic guards in their blood-red uniforms. I chewed the inside of my cheek until I felt the pinch of teeth cutting flesh. "What do you know, Charles?" I whispered.

"What do I know? I am simply the King's butler."

I looked him in the eyes. They were light gray, like fog over a distant hill. Deep-set, peeking out from sagging brows. His complexion was blotchy, cheeks drooping slightly with age. I noticed the heavy bags of flesh beneath his eyes for the first time. "All the more reason you should know, being so close to him."

"The things I know are quite before your time, young sir."

I bristled at the mention of my youth. Visibly. The butler pursed his lips.

"How many years are you, chap?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen." Half insult, half admiration. "What concern could the dying secrets of old men be of yours?"

"What concern of yours is it to defend him?" I countered.

Charles let out a little sigh and waved his hand impassively. He didn't answer for a long time, just stared at me with those blank eyes, as if hoping I would grow tired and go away. "He was no friend of mine, I shall be the first to say it. Over the years, we had our differences. Politically. Personally. Oh, what does it matter? He is gone now. They both are."

"Him and the King."

His silence spoke in place of words.

"They were lovers?"

Charles gripped me by the elbow. My back pressed against the banister, footing unsteady. "Love can be a very bitter thing, Mr Murray. Keep that in mind the next time you hear one profess it." With that, he turned away from me and took down the staircase.

I ran after him. My mind was stained with the image of Beauregard's face, his rage as he shook me in his grasp.

"What did he do?" I called.

"You will never bring this to the King, do you understand me, lad?" Charles spat the words between steps. I nodded. "If you love him as much as I do, you will keep him out of this miserable business."

"I will. I swear it."

We reached the bottom. Charles stood back to study me. My heart beat like racing horses in my chest. Every memory I had of Beauregard rose to the surface. Grinding his cane down into my foot. Throwing the tray at the mention of Philip's father. My only Sin.

His only sin. His Beloved One.

Had their affair started like mine? A common boy dazzled by the gleam of a crown? Given titles, given power? Would I someday become him? The spineless, conniving lover kept secret in plain sight?

"Charles," I whispered. "I need to speak to him."

The butler swallowed. "I would not advise that."

Beauregard hated me, yes. Thought me a servant of the Devil. Would he kill me? Try to? Would I kill him if it came to that? "We are the same, him and I, aren't we? I need to..." I needed to know that each time he looked upon with hatred, he did so because he saw himself.

Charles laid a hand on my shoulder. A grounding motion. "I don't think you are the same, Mr Murray. But I did not know him when he was your age." He paused and took a very slow breath. "I advise you to let this be, lad. But if you must..." He removed his hand and lifted his head. "I heard he owns a shop now. In London."

A shop. What a pitiful life for a former Lord Chamberlain. I felt that same tug of sympathy as the day Philip had dismissed him.

Then I thought of him jabbing his walking stick into my foot, felt his nails dig into my arms as he shook me. I pictured him scribbling away by the light of a candle in his bedchamber. Beloved One.

Little spinning spider, I thought. Even a king can get caught in your web.