by Euan McAllen
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
Esmeralda looked around, dumbstruck. She had to admit it was lovely.
‘It’s beautiful - sorry, it’s beautiful Sire.’
‘One of them will get this one day.’
And still he held her hand, refusing to let go.
‘Come, let me show you the bedroom.’
She didn’t want to see it but could not let go. The king did let go of Pig but held on to his stick.
‘You never know your luck: one of them may wish to share it with you one day, when they are king. But not as their wife. It’s a tradition.’
The thought of Tascho or Mozak as a king, in this room, with her, was a thought which buzzed around her head. The king pushed back the doors to reveal the bedroom beyond.
‘Fantastic room.’
Esmeralda nodded. It did look impressive: a great room, a playroom, for a great man. And still the king did not let go of her hand. He led her in, almost dragged her in for she resisted, but only slightly; just enough to register her complaint. She had no choice. This man was the king and she was nothing, just a poor orphan from the Village. He forced her to stand by the bed, next to him, as if to ask her to give it her approval. He looked deeply into her eyes, which she hated. She looked down at the carpet, pretending to be interested in the pattern it presented. Finally he released her hand, only to put his around her waist - at which point Esmeralda began to twist and struggle for she knew she was in deep trouble. He tried to hold on, pull her in, but she pushed him off. And she was strong, and his strength was gone.
‘Damn it, I’m the king!’
But Esmeralda wasn’t listening. She pushed him off again, turned and fled, accidentally kicking aside his stick. He tried to pounce on the moving target but fell at the first hurdle, hitting the floor with a shock: a pain shot up his leg. He screamed out.
‘Bitch!’
Then he passed out. Life was a bitch.
Esmeralda was too far gone to hear him. She was fleeing the scene: out of the castle and on to the cottage, the safest place she could think of. Today was proving to be not a nice day for her. She cried all the way to the cottage; desperately hoping that Gregory would be there; afraid to speak of the incident to anyone, not Gregory, not the twins, not Lady Agnes. Must forget all about it, she told herself. Not the easiest thing to do. How could such a man be Timothy’s father? she asked herself. Because he’s Tascho’s father, she reminded herself. ‘Men’, she thought later when she thought of Breamston. But not the Hermit, she also thought. And that cheered her up.
While men of substance and ambition plotted, and others chased after the fairer sex, the king’s discarded lovers, sisters Parmina and Tarmina, sat and chewed on biscuits as they chewed over their thoughts and talked about revenge - but only in a way that ten year olds might talk about it.
‘He should be taught a lesson.’
‘He should. No one should suffer what we suffered.’
‘He needs to know what it’s like to hurt.’
‘He should be made to hurt.’
‘Can we hurt him?’
‘Why not? There must be a way.’
‘There must be.’
‘He loves his pig.’
‘That bloody disgusting pig. I hate that pig.’
‘I hate it.’
‘They call him the pig-king.’
‘I know.’
‘I know.’
‘Hurt his pig and he hurts,’ joked Parmina.
‘Yes, let him feel the pain of his pig in pain!’ joked Tarmina.
‘Pig in pain!’
‘Pig roasting in pain!’
‘Let him eat his own pig!’
The sisters laughed and nearly choked on their biscuits. Then the laughter died away to be replaced by an awkward silence. Neither knew what to say next. Parmina looked across at the door before continuing.
‘Wouldn’t it be funny if someone stole his pig and put it on a spit.’
‘Very funny.’
The conversation died there, but it would restart later for the sisters always had lots to talk about.
***
King Bizi woke up with a jolt. He was in the Royal Infirmary, safe but not well. A stack of pisspots stood in the corner: all rinsed out and ready to be filled, this time by royal piss from a royal pisspot. The Royal Doctor was leaning over him and peering at the body for these days his eyesight was not good. Bizi could smell his breath as he wiped sweat from his brow and muttered to himself that the situation was not good. Bizi made the mistake of moving his throbbing leg: the pain which shot up his leg was excruciating and he yelled out. The doctor fell back and a nurse ran forward to fill the gap.
‘Blast! Doctor, make the pain go away!’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Now!’
‘I will. I will.’ The Royal Doctor did not sound confident.
He ran off, to return with his special potion. It was the colour of light green and it smelt disgusting. He made the king drink some, then drink some more. It didn’t actually taste too bad but still it made the king feel sick - but then sleepy, which was the intended effect. He rubbed it up and down and all over the leg and ankle as if preparing a joint of meat for cooking. It felt cold. It felt good and the king was pleased. But the pain was still there, and stayed there until the king slipped out of consciousness, driven by a fever. When he awoke again he demanded alcohol, lots of it. The nurse on duty did not argue. The Royal Doctor had already had some, to calm his nerves, afraid the king was going to die on him.
The alcohol sent Bizi into a worse state. He demanded a pig, his pig, lots of pigs, but the doctor refused. Pigs could not enter the Royal Infirmary. That simply would not do. Bizi demanded his mother be taken away, before she harmed someone, which confused the nurse but not the doctor. He explained that she had already been taken away, as previously requested by the king. But the king had already moved on: he wanted to see his boys, he shouted, before slipping out of consciousness again. The princes were called for.
Bizi opened his eyes and there they were: his boys, staring down at him, and not particularly liking what they saw. He reached out, wishing to take a hand, but none was in reach - and none reached out. He vaguely heard one of them say something - he could not tell which - before slipping out of consciousness again. The twins slipped from his mind to be replaced by the queen who proceeded to cause damage. And all the time his leg felt like it was on fire. Bizi did not know it - which was probably a good thing - but the Dowager Queen was smiling, broadly. She had heard of Bastard Bizi’s accident and was hoping he might lose the leg.
***
That night Esmeralda, safe in the cottage, struggled to hold on to the day, for she did not want tomorrow to arrive. She did not want to be part of it. For tomorrow was banquet day and she was not looking forward it: sitting close to the king, to Tascho, to Mozak; and a crowd of strangers watching, judging, gossiping. She had fallen out of love with the Castle. Without warning it had transformed into a scary place, full of mad men and frustrating boys. It was a place where too many people spent too much time in pointless pursuits. That was not her way, she knew that now. She only had to take a look at her old friend Gregory. He was just sitting there, watching the world go past outside his window. He looked crushed.
That night, on the eve of the banquet and his eighteenth birthday Tascho needed sex, badly, so he ended up crawling into the bed of Lady Agnes. There he was treated well. There was little talking and after the furious lovemaking he stared up at the ceiling. He could not work it out. Then it struck him: he did not want to be a man yet. He still wanted to live out his boyhood; live life as a boy, without complications or conspiracies or corruption by adults - a bit like his life as a novice monk but without the heavy rules and the heavy presence of God breathing down his n
eck. He just wanted liberty, and innocence. Yes, liberty and innocence: a wonderful mix. Instead, he had been cut up and caught out in so many ways. Lady Agnes Aga-Smath versus Esmeralda; mother versus father; old life versus new; Tascho versus Timothy. He felt split down the middle: he wanted his two halves to join together, to make him whole again.
In another part of the castle his twin held the opposite thought: he could not wait to be a man, live life as a man, and be one step nearer to the throne. He thought of Esmeralda, unable to put her down. She had the hots for his brother. What to do? Impress her with some reckless deed?
That night sex was also on the mind of the Dowager Queen when she was not thinking of the big day ahead. Alone in her bed, she contemplated what it would feel like if Helmotti was back in her bed. It could be good, she concluded. She wanted him back. And as for the banquet, that would also be good. She was looking forward to it now. If Bizi didn’t show his face then she would be the most senior royal present. There she would be, decked out in her finest, at top table. There the Queen would demand respect. There the Queen would take command of proceedings. There the Queen would proudly declare that her boys were now men. Men! Tomorrow, her boys became men - two men who were for her and against him. That could only make her position stronger. Tomorrow would be a good day. It would be a perfect day if Bastard Bizi died.
While others slept or tried to sleep, or tried to stay awake, Pig was caught unawares. He didn’t know what was happening, only that it was happening fast. He was snoozing, deep in pig sleep. A human yanked him awake and rolled him roughly on to his back. Another, equally rough human held his head. Two of them. Neither was being nice to him. He squealed in protest. They whispered to each other.
‘This one.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. Everybody knows this pig.’
They tied his front trotters together then the back pair as he struggled to break free. Then the final humiliation: they rammed an apple into his mouth to shut him up before carting him away. The king was not there to save him. He was busy having a nightmare: he was being led up the tower in chains by Helmotti, Mozak and Tascho; mother was waiting to greet him, arms outstretched. ‘Come to me my child!’ The Dowager Queen was laughing at him and spitting out his name. And his dead father simply didn’t care.
***
It was the day of the banquet. For some it started as a tedious drag: a day spent washing, waiting, wondering what dress to wear or wishing to acquire one. For others it started in frantic haste and would continue like that until the day was done and they had cleared away, cleaned up, wiped up, wished away, and disposed of all the waste, and got seriously drunk lords and ladies back into their beds in one piece (not always their own bed). Some spent their time waiting until it was time to prepare. Some were prepared to wait. The kitchen staff suffered the most. They were worked to death to get all the dishes ready to be served on time. They received no thanks when they did.
The fittest, fastest dog was selected to turn the spit. A dead pig was delivered for roasting whole. (Some thought they recognised its face but said nothing. Some things were better not said if it involved the king.) Vegetables were piled up; washed, chopped up, boiled, grilled, roasted. Meat, marinated over night, was ready for the chop, as were the chickens. Sausages suffered a serious bruising. Fingers got cut. The usual suspects urinated into the vat of soup. Beer got watered down to make up for that which had been stolen. The fruit got off lightly.
Esmeralda started the day in nervous anticipation of the great event to come whilst holding on to her sweet surprise. She hoped she would not let the twins down. She hoped it to be a good day for the twins. She was sad that Gregory had not been invited - he on the other hand was glad. She was loathed to ask Lady Agnes if she could borrow a dress for the occasion but when she finally did summon up the courage to ask she was surprised by Lady Agnes’s reaction: the lady simply flung open the doors of her wardrobe and told Esmeralda to take her pick. Lady Agnes no longer regarded the village girl as competition. When being nice cost her nothing Lady Agnes had no problem being nice.
Once dressed to impress, Esmeralda rounded on and rounded up the twins, persuading them both to join her for she had a surprise to share with them both, together, as one. Mozak - the energetic one this morning - was enthusiastic; in contrast to Tascho - the tired one - who was suspicious. Lady Agnes was also present - determined to watch Esmeralda’s every move where Tascho was concerned. It was a birthday cake, without the candles but with the love and attention. Esmeralda had made it the day before as a last minute thought - mainly to distract herself. Lady Agnes was angry with herself. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
Esmeralda presented it proudly to the twins, like a wife presenting a baby to her husband - in this case two. She thanked them all - Lady Agnes included - for their support and guidance, and letting her live at the Castle. Tascho was right to be suspicious for he sensed closure in her words: the end of one thing; the start of another. And he was jealous: she had her way out.
The cake had a deep groove running down its middle which clearly divided it into two equal halves. Esmeralda cut it down the middle and handed the knife to Tascho, asking him to try a piece. Tentatively he cut a small slice off one half - in his mind now his half - popped it into his mouth, chewed it over and said it was good. He sounded almost mechanical.
‘Do I get a piece?’ asked Lady Agnes.
Without answering, Tascho cut another slice, leaving it to her to pick it up, which she did, quickly, as if it was about to run away. Once it was in her possession she took her time to eat it, not wishing to be seen as someone who stuffed her face at every opportunity. Tascho passed the knife to his brother, as if wishing to be rid of it.
‘It’s good. Try some.’
Mozak went through the same ritual and agreed: the cake was good. When is cake ever bad? he asked himself.
He looked at Esmeralda. ‘Would you like a slice?’ he asked.
‘Yes please.’
Mozak obliged and handed her a slice, taken from his half. She proceeded to wolf it down, beating Lady Agnes to the finishing line. Mozak thought it funny and laughed. He saw it as an excuse to give her a big kiss and hug but with Tascho present felt impeded so did not follow through - only to see Tascho suddenly leave, saying nothing.
‘What about your cake!’ cried Mozak.
‘You eat it,’ replied Tascho, but to Esmeralda.
‘Me?’
‘Yes you.’
‘Wait for me!’ cried Lady Agnes as she ran after him, which did not please Tascho.
Shaking her off he retreated to the garden maze to kill time; not wishing to see anybody, especially not one Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Meanwhile Mozak consumed his portion as fast as Esmeralda consumed Tascho’s - it was a race. Great cake, he told her when he was done. And still he could not bring himself to do the deed, not even when he was alone with her. Nerves, he told himself afterwards. It’s my birthday. Nerves.
***
Come the banquet, the servants stood to attention and the guests flooded in to snatch their seats. Fighting almost erupted between those nearest Top Table: the prize being the best view possible of possible theatricals to come. Some had come not for the food, drink, singing and shouting but to see the twins, and the state of the Dowager Queen, and most importantly the state of Bizi the Pig-King. They needed a reality check. They wanted to be entertained. Lord Fucho did not have to fight for a seat: his was reserved at Top Table and he sat in it undisturbed by what went on around him; impassive, like a man whose life was planned out in detail to satisfaction; like a man whose life was immune to interference or distraction of any kind. Lady Agnes Aga-Smath also had a place at the top table. Esmeralda did not. She could only look up as her friend looked down on her. And in the corner, close to Top Table, the pig was turning.
The Dowager Queen and the prince
s entered the banquet hall last; slowly, with as much respectability and solemnity as they could fake. Prince Mozak looked ahead. Prince Tascho looked down. To muted, scattered applause they took their places at Top Table. The Queen took note of such gaps in the audience. The twins didn’t: Mozak didn’t care and Tascho was too nervous to care. He just wanted it to end. He glanced down at Esmeralda. She was looking up at him. He looked away, unable to accept her charity.
Tascho felt his every movement - his very lack of action - was being watched and examined for defects - and they were - and it made him feel sick. He never thought he would hate his own birthday so much. Mozak, on the other hand, was loving it. He knew he was the centre of attention and bathed in the glory of his own importance. The Queen didn’t care if she was being watched as she was too busy watching everybody else. The Queen wanted to rule over them all, today, now. Prince Mozak wanted to rule tomorrow. And meanwhile the pig kept turning.
The king’s place at the top of Top Table remained empty. It stuck out like a sore thumb and made many of those present uncomfortable. The Queen had to force herself to not smile. King Bizi should have been sitting alongside the princes, with the Queen sat on their other side (so hidden from his view). There was a vibe in the air, a disquiet. Would King Bizi make a fool of himself, or make a fool of the Queen? Would he humiliate her in front of her children? Those in the know did not expect him to appear. He was sick, some said. We know, said others. But he would not miss this, added others. Perhaps he had been locked up, suggested one. With his mad mother? asked another. About time, muttered another. No one was watching the turning pig. No one cared for the dog which had to turn it.
The Queen had already decided in advance to wait an appropriate, respectful period of time before starting without him. She sat resolute, frozen; her eyes sometimes conveying immense sadness, other times just cold, callous indifference. Her sons caught her mood and sat equally stony faced. Together they did their best to ignore the grumblings and rumblings and the odd catcall.