In Poor Taste by Luke John Spiby
18th century beggar Archie applies for a job as the Queen's poison checker, but doesn't expect her to be so flirtatious.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
Chapter One
The Queen's Antechamber
It is much too decadent to describe. That would honestly be a waste of precious time and would probably require a dictionary. A better option, if you're wondering what this particular Queen's antechamber looks like, is to picture the most tacky, over-the-top person you know - if no one instantly comes to mind, that's because it's you - and imagine how they would decorate if they were alive during the Rococo period of the 18th century and had an essentially unlimited budget.
Yes, it truly is that bad.
Oh, and if you're wondering what exactly an antechamber is: well, it's basically a slightly smaller room that leads to the bedroom - like a waiting room, you could say, because what monarch worth their salt doesn't need an entirely separate room for their subjects to form a queue in right outside the room where they have sex? It saves a lot of hassle.
Sure, there is also an antechamber before the throne room, but this one is definitely before the Queen's bedroom. You can tell because it's bigger. Grander. More garish.
This is where our story begins.
Currently inside the antechamber are four men. Three of them are completely insignificant - well, perhaps not to their loved ones, but they have little bearing on this story - so don't worry about their names. The fourth man is called Hugh.
Each of these men is holding but - importantly - not reading a roll of parchment.
Then a fifth man - Archie - enters the room, slightly breathless. Hugh waves his best friend over, and forces the man next to him to stand so Archie can sit.
(See, the nameless guys aren't even important enough for chairs. Don't worry, they'll be gone soon, then you'll never have to think about them again.)
"I see you are late, as usual, my friend," Hugh says to Archie as he takes his seat. "What's the excuse this time? Horse wouldn't start?"
Okay, so obviously the 18th-century dialect spoken by the aristocracy is a little different to yours, my modern-day reader, with your casual pronunciation, colloquialisms and text slang. But when it comes to the average person back then, eating stale bread and stew, drinking ale instead of water, dying of infection or the shits, surely there are some similarities between their speech and what you're used to. Also, bear in mind that although Archie and Hugh may (at times) read quite posh, especially when you compare them to yourself, that's not how they sound. They are actually both lower-class, common-as-muck types, not dignitaries or noblemen. Something to take into account when you're imagining their accents.
"She's a stubborn creature..." Archie responds. "But no, I got lost."
Hugh laughs. "It's the castle; you can see it from the farthest reaches of the kingdom!"
"Actually, that's a myth," Archie informs his friend. "I heard that during one of those TED talks in the square."
Fine, I clearly play a little fast and loose with the historical accuracy. So sue me.
"It's the Queen's house!" Hugh exclaims.
"I know where the castle is! I spend five days a week begging for change in its shadow. But there are so many rooms... It's like a maze."
"Maybe if you picked up shifts on the weekends, your fingers wouldn't be in my purse so often."
"If I get this job - when I get this job - I can pay back all I owe and more."
"Sorry, job's taken," Hugh says with confidence. "Her Highness won't be able to resist this smile." He shows off the teeth he has left - about two-thirds of them - with a wide grin, which, to be fair to him, is relatively appealing compared to most of his peers, including Archie. "There aren't many men our age, in our socioeconomic demographic, with over half their teeth left, you know." He gives Archie a meaningful look, and the twinkle in his eye seems to add: "You, my friend, not being one of them".
Archie tries to mask his envy by rolling his eyes. "I'm sure the most famous woman in the country isn't so superficial as you suggest," he says, and hopes it's true. "Why are you even here?" he asks Hugh, suddenly feeling somewhat affronted by the previously overlooked possibility of his best friend pulling the rug out from under him, especially considering how desperately he needs this job. "You already have employment."
"Not with the Queen, I don't! And the royal food-taster-slash-cupbearer... It's my dream job!"
"Dream job?" Archie is shocked - dismayed, even - by this opinion. "It's basically a human shield, without the glory of battle."
"Archie, Archie, Archie," Hugh says, shaking his head slowly and looking at the friend sitting next to him with a condescending expression, like he's dealing with an untrained and particularly witless animal. "It's free food and drink and a daily audience with Her Majesty!"
"A daily chance of death, more like!" Adam counters, his vehemence growing in direct proportion to Hugh's insouciance. "For minimum wage. There should at least be hazard pay!" The truth is, he really doesn't want this job, but unfortunately, he is in no position to be picky. You know what they say about beggars not being choosers; well, Archie is literally a beggar.
"Always the pessimist," Hugh responds, and shows his teeth again in a casual half-smile. "The danger is imagined, I tell you. People don't just go around trying to poison the Queen." His patronising tone is infuriating.
"What makes you so sure?" Archie leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, subconsciously giving Hugh space to present his logic while simultaneously closing himself off from it.
"It's widely known that the servants like to gossip. Have you heard about any poisonings?"
"No." The word leaves Archie's mouth reluctantly.
"Read about any murders or attempted murders in the castle?"
"I can't read," Archie reminds him.
"So that's a no, then?" Now Hugh is making fun of his friend.
"Obviously it's a no."
"Seen any guards throwing the corpses of previous food-tasters-slash-cupbearers out of castle windows?" He makes an expansive gesture that encompasses the room, the whole castle, with this last hypothetical, using the roll of parchment in his hand for emphasis.
"Of course not," Archie answers, his lips set into a tight line. He isn't seeing the humour in this.
"Well then, there you have it!" Hugh's point has well and truly been made. To summarise: "If it looks like a cow, smells like a cow, and feels like a cow, don't fuck it."
Appalled, Archie opens his mouth to say something, but at that exact moment, the Queen's Lord Chamberlain enters. That's his job title, not his name, by the way. His name is Fawkes. For ease, think of him as the Queen's PA.
"Mister A. Sellers," Fawkes calls to the room at large.
On hearing his name, Archie raises his hand and rises to his feet awkwardly. He tentatively approaches Fawkes with a polite smile - making a conscious effort to keep his lips pressed firmly together, in order to hide his glaring lack of teeth.
"I see you arrived late," Fawkes says. He has to lean his head far back in order to be able to peer down his nose at the taller man.
"Yes, sorry, I -"
Fawkes thrusts a roll of parchment at Archie. "Terms of service," he explains. "You can spend a moment reading over it, if you'd like, but please be sure to sign it before you leave."
Archie makes a show of 'reading' the document, scratching his chin and nodding his head - the works.
Fawkes slowly takes the parchment out of Archie's hands, turns it the right way 'round, and gives it back to him. "Simply draw an 'X' in your own hand somewhere near the bottom," says Fawkes in a haughty tone, straining his neck even more so he has to squint past his own protruding chin just to see the face of the man he considers to be far beneath him. He hands Archie a quill.
Without any more pretence, Archie does as he's told. Fawkes then snatches the quill and parchment from him.
"Her Highness will see you first. Follow me."
Archie gulps. He was expecting to have more time to mentally prepare.
Hugh meets him in the middle of the room and pats him on the back. "Warm her up for me!" he says jovially.
Archie glares at his so-called best friend and flashes him a surface smile before exiting.
Chapter Two
The Queen's Bedchamber
The Queen - young and buxom, with a perpetual glint in her eye which conveys her expectation to be treated as befitting royalty in her court but as a courtesan in the boudoir (or, to put it simply: a lady in the street but a freak in the bed) - is sitting on her divan, removing her shiny and weighty accessories, as Archie enters the bedchamber behind Fawkes. The fact that she's able to move around freely for hours on end while wearing those things is a testament to her physical strength, as well as her mental fortitude.
"Your Majesty," Fawkes announces, in a much more pleasant tone than the one he used with Archie moments earlier, "may I present Mister Archibald Sellers."
"Archie's fine."
The Queen immediately, shamelessly, undresses Archie with her eyes, and she likes what she sees. "Pleasure, I'm sure," she says, standing and proffering her hand, fingers pointing downwards, in greeting.
Archie, unfamiliar with standard customs of etiquette, awkwardly shakes this strangely presented hand rather than kiss it. This discourteous behaviour disgusts Fawkes a disproportionate amount, and he pulls a face like he's just tasted something revolting; yet Archie's action only makes the Queen giggle, as if she's been presented with some amusing curio from a foreign land.
She looks Archie up and down for a long moment, and he squirms under her gaze, feeling her eyes move about him like the rats that pester him in the nights and gave his parents the plague.
"Please, take a seat," she suggests as she sits down and pats the space beside her on the divan.
Fawkes clears his throat involuntarily.
"I, erm -" Archie stutters.
"Sit," the Queen interrupts, speaking more firmly. "Sit, sit."
Archie has no choice but to obey. He perches on the edge of the seat, as far away from the Queen as the divan will allow.
The Queen leans towards him and sniffs.
"Not bad, considering," is her assessment.
"Err..." is all Archie is able to say in response.
Fortunately for Fawkes, his eye roll goes unnoticed.
As far as job interviews go, this one is a little unusual, but Archie's definitely had worse. The one for public executioner comes to mind - his foot has only just healed.
"You understand the duties of the position?" the Queen enquires.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What do you think you can bring to the role?"
"Well... Good question." Archie tries to think on his feet, so to speak. "I'm loyal, err, dependable -"
"That's nice." She seems bored, and gives a flippant gesture with her hand. "I'll let you know if space opens up in the kennels; you can hunt foxes with the other dependable beasts."
"I'm a team player," is Archie's next attempt.
"What sport?" is the Queen's facetious reply.
"I'm positive."
"You're sure?"
"Flexible."
"Now we're talking." The Queen's eyebrows raise and she smiles.
"Hard working."
"How hard?" The smile grows into a grin and the eyebrows wiggle.
"What -"
"We live in dangerous times," the Queen digresses; she begins combing her fingers through her hair. "As a woman, I need strong, obedient men around to protect me. You agree that women need to be protected?"
"Actually," Archie answers honestly, "I think women are ferocious and remarkable, and can do anything a man..." He trails off when he realises the Queen is glaring at him in both doubt and dissatisfaction. "I mean, yeah, sure. I can protect you."
"I feel safer already." This is spoken with feigned seriousness but a lack of conviction. "You may go," she concludes, with a flick of her wrist.
"Okay," Archie says, a sense of relief spilling over him like piss out of a top-floor window. "Should I -"
"Go, go, go," the Queen demands, pointing at the door until Archie exits.
Fawkes steps forward to hear her verdict, confident that it will be negative.
"I'm tired," Her Majesty says with a huff and a sigh. "He'll do."
"Are you sure? I have reservations about -"
"Are you questioning me?" The Queen's voice is loud and shrill. She really has no patience with Fawkes.
Fawkes instantly loses his voice. His mouth moves, but no sound escapes.
The Queen flicks her wrist again; Fawkes bows, exits.
Chapter Three
The Royal Dining Room - The Next Morning
Two unimportant, nameless servants gossip in hushed tones - something about a sordid scandal involving an exiled writer and a young boy - as they set the dining table, which is large enough to be a status symbol all by itself.
The Queen enters, wearing a luxurious dressing gown over her flowing silk negligée and swinging around a flamboyant chalice. She is closely followed by Fawkes, who is dutifully carrying a decanter of wine.
Archie stumbles along behind them, him with his own, significantly less extravagant chalice. A drunken sluggishness has descended over him.
The servants quickly hurry from the room without pausing in their gossiping. They've moved onto news about a rumoured revolution across the ocean, possibly involving cake.
The Queen sits at her place at the table. She waves her chalice at Fawkes, spilling some wine. Fawkes motions to fill it.
"What do you think you're doing?" The Queen snaps, moving her chalice away before Fawkes has chance to top it up.
Fawkes is taken aback. "Fulfilling Your Majesty's desire by filling the royal chalice," he answers sheepishly.
"Conspiring in regicide, more like!"
Fawkes balks at this. "Ma'am, I would never -"
"So you say," the Queen slurs slightly, "but did you not just try to entice me to drink before the royal cupbearer has assured us of the wine's harmlessness, as well as its richness and fruity aftertaste!" It's unclear whether she is truly outraged, or simply jesting for sport at Fawkes' expense.
"But," Fawkes splutters, "Your Highness, Mister Sellers has already partaken of this particular vintage. Twice."
"Insolence!"
"Apologies!" Fawkes cries. "I didn't mean to - I wouldn't dare -"
"It is forgotten," The Queen says, already bored of the conversation.
"Serving Your Majesty is my only purpose! I shudder to think -"
"Silence! Before I lose my appetite. You are forgiven, Fawkes, despite yourself." She shows him a savage smile. "Now, be quick to pour that wine before my tongue loses its sweetness and my brain this wicked buzz."
Fawkes almost falls over himself as he rushes to fill Archie's chalice, then the Queen's.
Archie doesn't look too happy about having a cup that runneth over, but he forces himself to take a small sip under the scrutinous gaze of his employer. The wine makes him gag - clearly, he's not experienced in consuming so much alcohol.
The Queen, obviously trying to get him drunk, smiles into her own chalice as she gulps down half of its contents.
"Why do you loiter so far away, Archie?" she asks. "Come stand by me."
Archie does as commanded, taking up a position at her side, but knowing better than to sit down.
"You look sickly." The Queen is all innocence as she says this. She plays the part well. "How are you feeling?" You can imagine that many a man has underestimated her in the past, right before she's bedded them then bitten their heads off like a black widow spider.
"That depends," Archie responds, "what time is it?"
"Nine in the morning," Fawkes informs him.
"Then not good."
"You mean to say," the Queen says in a mock-offended tone, "that you're not enjoying your first day on the job?"
"Oh, Your Highness, no. I would never say that to your face." Uncommonly drunk though he may be, Archie is attached to his head enough to have more sense than to resort to honesty.
"And what do you mean by that?" The Queen may be pretending to be stern, but the curl of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes are a sure sign that she's enjoying this.
"Err, nothing..." Archie is even less accustomed to verbal gymnastics than he is to day drinking. He should just leave it at that, but of course he doesn't: "Just, if I were to harbour such unfavourable thoughts - which I definitely do not, and never will, for that matter - I would find it hard to speak such thoughts out loud in Your Majesty's presence, for fear of dampening those piercing eyes or creasing your well-tamed brow." He has a lot to learn.
Yet, despite Archie's flagrant lack of tact (particularly when trying especially hard to be tactful), or perhaps because of such an idiosyncrasy, the Queen seems more amused than annoyed. "You are a very articulate drunk," she observes. "An unusual yet endearing trait."
Fawkes struggles to hide his chagrin. He really doesn't understand what his Queen sees in this ape masquerading as a human. "Would you like your breakfast sent in now, Your Majesty?" he says, trying to capture her attention.
The Queen, however, doesn't take her eyes from Archie. "I have yet to find my appetite," she says. "Perhaps after another glass."
"But, ma'am -"
"So, Archie," the Queen says, speaking over Fawkes, his presence of no interest to her. "The words you said may sound as sweet as the wine coursing through your veins, but they do nothing to assuage this gnawing sensation at the back of one's head."
"It is not my intention to cause Your Highness any discomfort -"
"I have Fawkes here for all that 'Your High Majesty' shit. I want to know I can trust you to be honest with me."
"You can, I swear it," Archie says, finding that simpler, shorter lies are easier to get away with.
"Pinky promise?"
"What?" Archie has never heard of such a thing before. It must be a trend amongst the nobility.
"Do you swear in front of Almighty God?" the Queen clarifies. "And I don't mean the blasphemous kind of swearing."
"I, err... I guess so." Archie thanks... Well, he doesn't have Anyone to thank, per se, but he is definitely thankful in this moment that he secretly holds the unpopular belief that there is no big, bearded Guy in the sky, manipulating him and everyone he knows like chess pieces (though he wouldn't admit that to anyone, not even Hugh).
The Queen gestures for him to actually make a promise to God, as if that All-Knowing, All-Seeing, All-Singing, All-Dancing genius Work of Fiction is literally waiting with His arms crossed, tapping His foot impatiently.
Archie shrugs internally - What harm could it do? He puts his hands together and closes his eyes in prayer.
"Do you think God can read minds?" the Queen asks. "You have to shout it, or He won't hear you."
Archie opens his eyes to look at the Queen, his brows furrowed. Surely she must be joking. But no, she seems serious enough. Archie sighs, resigned to the charade. "ALMIGHTY GOD -"
"I don't know which God you worship," the Queen interrupts, "but mine lives in the Heavens above."
Just get it over with, Archie thinks as he looks skyward. "ALMIGHTY -"
"And get on your knees. You must kneel when swearing an oath before God."
Seriously? Archie kneels. He looks at the sky, hands clasped and outstretched, and is about to implore the ceiling... when the Queen bursts out laughing.
Archie realises the joke immediately and joins the Queen in laughter, though his is more in relief than actual humour.
It takes some time for the laughter to die down. All the while, Fawkes watches them with annoyance painted on his face in bright red and shades of purple.
"I don't know what it is," the Queen confides, "but there's something about you, Archie... I never thought I'd find a better attendant than your predecessor, my former food taster and cupbearer, Mister Peter Knight - in name only, not in rank - but you are quickly proving my doubts to be unfounded."
"I've been meaning to ask: what exactly made you fire your last food taster and cupbearer? It must've been bad."
"I didn't fire him. I've never fired anyone."
"Oh, err... What -"
"He died, in the line of duty."
"He was...?" Archie can't bring himself to say the word.
"Poisoned, yes," the Queen finishes for him. She seems unaffected by the untimely death of an apparently appreciated employee. "And we are yet to capture the vile perpetrator. As I've said, these are dangerous times. I'm glad you are here to protect me." She smiles at Archie, who tries to smile back, but he looks like he's about to be sick. "We need to do something about your complexion," the Queen comments, moving the conversation along easily.
"May I be excused?" Archie sounds as ill as he looks.
The Queen takes one look at him and grants his request with a wave of the hand. Archie runs out of the room, a hand to his mouth, in search of the nearest commode.
Fawkes watches Archie go, then turns to look at the Queen. His expression says it all.
"Oh, fuck off," the Queen says in a much rougher voice than she uses with Archie - or anyone, really. "He just needs a little training. Carrot and stick. Now, where's my breakfast? I'm dying of starvation."
Fawkes inclines his head - though he doesn't go far enough for it to be considered a bow - before he exits.
The Queen makes a mental note to punish Fawkes for treating her with an inappropriate amount of familiarity. Perhaps a good lashing will restore some of his old obsequiousness.
Chapter Four
The Royal Dining Room - That Evening
The Queen is still in her pyjamas. She seems more sober than earlier, but she is in fact much more drunk.
Fawkes enters in a rush. "Your Highness, shouldn't you get dressed? Doctor Scrivens is due to arrive at any moment."
"The good doctor has seen me in less appropriate garb - and in less garb, for that matter." The Queen snorts at her own wittiness. It is extremely unbecoming.
"Ma'am -" Fawkes tries.
"Whatever your thoughts, eject them from your mind. The doctor and I have been friends since childhood, and that is the beginning and end of that. In fact, eject yourself from this room at once; I have the opposite of use for you at present."
Fawkes opens his mouth to say something, but a look from the Queen, as well as the burning imprints he can still feel on his back from his flogging earlier, are enough to stop the words dead on his tongue. Instead, he bows low and leaves.
Suddenly struck by an afterthought, the Queen calls after him: "And send in -" Archie is forcefully pushed through the dining room's grand double doors before she can finish her request. Her voice instantly changes from stormy to sunshine: "Archie, my dear, lovely to see you. Where have you been?"
"I... I passed out with my head inside the royal shit-hole." It's an obvious lie, but the Queen is both too self-absorbed and not sober enough to notice.
"Count your blessings it wasn't the servants' quarters you stumbled into," she says nonchalantly, as if this kind of thing happens to her all the time.
"I shall, as soon as my head settles enough for me to count."
"Very good," the Queen replies appreciatively. "Wait here while I change into a more fitting outfit for dinner."
"Is what you're wearing the wrong size? It looks fine to me." His booze-addled brain isn't exactly performing to its usual standard - not that its usual standard is particularly impressive to begin with.
"What? No." The Queen is more than a little confused by Archie's comment. "Just... protect the wine. I shan't be long."
She places her chalice on the table before leaving him alone in the dining room.
Archie stands around for a while, unsure of what to do while he waits. Eventually his eyes settle on the Queen's ornate chair, which is, as always, positioned at the centre of the table. He checks the coast is clear before creeping over to it like a pantomime villain. Milking the moment for all it's worth, Archie slowly lowers himself into the chair; he leans back, his legs outstretched beneath the table, his hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. He's really enjoying this.
For all of ten seconds.
That's how long he gets before his old friend Hugh enters the room, doing his best to skulk but being about as inconspicuous as an elephant with an allergy to fashionable furniture and pompous paintings.
Archie jumps up at the sound of Hugh's entrance.
"Archie, there you are," Hugh says in lieu of a greeting. "This place is a maze."
"Ahh, Hugh..." Archie says with a relieved sigh. "You caught me off guard. I thought -"
"Will you please tell me why you dragged me here? If I'm not back within the hour, Dad'll take it out of my wages."
"I need you to pretend to be a doctor," Archie says simply. His expression tells Hugh that this is of the utmost importance.
"Seriously, Archie, one of these days you're going to get me arrested."
"Will you do it?" Archie's tone is pleading.
Hugh understands that this is the kind of no-questions-asked scenario that only occurs between best friends at times of absolute desperation. "Yeah, I'll do it," he says. But he is only able to hold his tongue for the time it takes Archie to show him a grateful grin before he just has to ask: "Why am I doing it?"
"So I can fake my own death."
"What?" Hugh can't tell if that is supposed to be a joke. It isn't April yet, is it? He thought he could smell alcohol (and vomit) when he approached Archie, so maybe his friend has just had one too many.
Archie elaborates: "This job is going to kill me! It's my only way out."
"Why don't you just quit?"
"I tried! Fawkes laughed in my face. Apparently, the only ways out of the contract are if the Queen fires me, or if one - or both - of us dies."
"Speak with the Queen," Hugh suggests.
"I can't." This is said in a despairing, drawn-out whine.
"Why not?"
"Her Majesty... I think she..." Archie struggles to say it out loud, but he knows he has to confide in someone - and who better than his best, his only, friend? "I think she's, err, infatuated with me."
Hugh laughs uproariously.
Some friend.
"I'm being serious," Archie says testily.
"I can tell," Hugh says, wiping his eyes. "So, what's the plan?"
"Simple: I fake my death; you, a young local doctor wandering the castle after treating a poor girl in the servants' quarters, overhear my tragic and untimely demise -"
"Fake demise," Hugh points out.
"- and burst into the room. You offer your help, pronounce my death, and insist on disposing of my remains."
"For a small fee!" Hugh shows his teeth at the thought of making some money out of this.
"No improvising! Just carry me out of the room and we're golden. Got it?"
Hugh shrugs. He mumbles something that Archie can't quite hear.
"What was that?"
"As you wish," Hugh says louder, though he still doesn't seem happy about it.
"Good." Archie takes his friend by the shoulders and directs him towards the servants' entrance. "Go wait out here where you won't be seen. I've left something for you in the storeroom across the corridor."
"Aww, you shouldn't have!" Hugh says. Like a magpie that has spotted a new shiny thing, his disappointment from mere moments ago is all but forgotten. "What is it?"
"Just something to make you more believable as a physician. You'll see it as soon as you open the door."
Archie ushers Hugh out of the door, and just in time, for the Queen returns at that very moment. (Yes, the timing is unbelievably convenient, but it's my story, so deal with it.)
"Archie, who are you waiting for?" the Queen asks when she sees him loitering by the other door.
"Only for you."
"At the servants' entrance?" The Queen puts her hand to her bosom in an exaggerated show of taking offence. "You do me a great injustice."
"Apologies, Your - I'm still rather dizzy from breakfast. And I missed lunch completely."
"Your lightweightedness is amusing to me," the Queen remarks with a smile.
Fawkes enters just ahead of a handsome man, not rich but certainly not poor either, around the Queen's age. This is Doctor Ernest Scrivens, the Queen's old friend (she mentioned him earlier, if you remember) and dinner guest for the evening.
"Your Majesty," Fawkes announces, "Doctor Scrivens has arrived."
"Doctor?" Archie says as an aside.
"Thank you for the commentary," the Queen says to Fawkes. "I am not blind - though sometimes I wish it to look at you."
"Still as prickly as ever, I see," Scrivens says with good-natured derision, his voice sonorous.
"Doctor," the Queen responds, "I have a wart on my finger; maybe you could examine it for me." She puts her middle finger up at him.
"And as crass!" the Doctor exclaims with a booming laugh. "Oh, how I've missed you."
The Queen and the Doctor embrace.
"Dear Doctor, allow me to introduce you to the newest member of my staff: Archie. Archie, this is my good friend, Doctor Ernest Scrivens."
Archie bows slightly, then takes the hand that Scrivens proffers.
"How do you do?" Scrivens asks politely as he vigorously shakes Archie's hand, almost crushing the younger man's bones into dust with his firm grip.
"Archie is surprisingly wise and humorous for a peasant," the Queen informs Scrivens.
"There are a few flecks of gold in each pan of dirt," Scrivens says sagely.
"Though none are as wise as you. Oh, Doctor, I have missed you thoroughly. How long has it been?"
"Since before I spent those two weeks fixing cleft palates on the African continent," Scrivens answers without hesitation. "Almost -"
Suddenly, two guards crash through the door connecting the dining room to the servants' quarters, hauling a struggling Hugh between them, whose impassioned objections are yelled in an adopted posh accent.
Both of these guards actually speak, but their names are still unimportant.
"Ma'am, we found this man with his ear to the door," says the first guard.
"He had this with him," says the second guard, throwing down a large, gleaming silver ladle. "It's likely he stole it from the storeroom."
"What a strangely distorted spoon," observes the Queen.
"I believe it's a soup ladle, Your Majesty," Fawkes enlightens her.
The Queen throws her most loyal employee a withering look. "I don't believe I asked for your opinion, Fawkes." He's quickly becoming persona non grata today.
"I was just wondering, perfect stranger," Archie chimes in, a certain edge to his voice, "why were you carrying a ladle?"
"Well, I'm a doctor," Hugh replies with unmerited aplomb. "A renowned doctor." His chest puffed out, he pulls his arms free of the guards' grasps. "I've just seen to a patient in the servants' quarters." He stoops down to retrieve the ladle, then straightens up and brandishes it like he's Arthur having just pulled Excalibur from the stone. "This is no mere ladle; it is an important medical instrument."
Archie covers his face with his hand, closes his eyes and shakes his head. Being poisoned isn't sounding quite so bad right about now.
"All Her Majesty's servants have health insurance," Fawkes explains. "We have access to one of the kingdom's most highly skilled doctors."
"You flatter me, Fawkes," Scrivens says in a spuriously humble manner.
"Doctors don't just carry ladles around," Archie says, still trying to shield himself from Hugh's humiliation with his hand.
"Don't they?" Hugh asks, his confidence wavering for the first time.
"They certainly don't," Scrivens answers.
"And who are you?" Hugh asks, his commitment to the role rejuvenated in the face of this new detractor. "An expert on doctors?"
"Well -" Scrivens tries to respond.
"Doctors carry apothecary bags!" Archie blurts out, no longer able to contain his exasperation. "Which is a coincidence, because I saw one in that very storeroom when I was in there earlier today!"
"Oh, really?" Hugh scratches his neck with the ladle. "I didn't notice it."
"Enough!" interrupts Scrivens. "I do not believe that this man is a medical practitioner."
"I am!"
"Let me see your credentials."
"I left them in my other coat."
"Enough bullshit," the Queen demands. She found the absurdity of the whole situation amusing at first - a welcome distraction from the fact that she has somehow sobered up much more than she finds tolerable - but the current back and forth is particularly grating to her nerves. "Seize him!"
Hugh looks to Archie for help, but on seeing his so-called best friend's grimace and slight shrug, Hugh turns to run.
The guards, however, are quicker than he'd hoped, and they seize him with ease.
The Queen approaches the pretend doctor ominously. "Now I hate to be a cliché," she says, savouring every syllable, "but I love a good beheading. Tell me why you are -"
Archie panics; he grabs the Queen's chalice from where she had laid it on the table earlier, downs as much of its contents as he is able, then slams it back onto the table.
Everyone stares at him, speechless. His actions seem excessive, unnecessary.
He looks at each of their faces in turn, taking in their expressions, which range from curiosity to consternation, the silence between them becoming imposing to the point of unbearable.
Suddenly, Archie goes into a convulsive fit.
He fakes his death, dramatically, surprisingly believably.
He'd win an award, if only such things existed in this era.
The Queen screeches at the horror she's been forced to witness.
"Hands off me, you brutes!" Hugh cries out, his posh accent exaggerated and the level of drama hyperbolic even for this situation. "I must tend to that man, for I am the doctor here."
"Funny," says Scrivens, "that is what I was about to say. Well, except for the first part."
Doctor Scrivens strides over to Archie, leans over to examine him, which takes barely any time and minimal contact, then straightens first his spine and second his dinner jacket.
"There's nothing wrong with him!" is the diagnosis. "Bloody scoundrel."
"You can conclude that after such a brief examination?" enquires Fawkes.
"That, and the cad just put his finger to his lips and whispered 'please'."
At that, Archie sighs and clambers to his feet, the mortification plain on his face. He would gratefully drink poison for real if it were offered to him in this moment; anything to get out of a situation so utterly embarrassing.
"Does this mean the royal chalice wasn't poisoned?" the Queen asks for clarification.
"That's exactly it, Your Highness," Fawkes says ingratiatingly, "well inferred."
"In that case, why is it empty?" Her tone is malicious.
Fawkes rushes to fill the Queen's chalice.
"What shall we do with the intruder, Your Majesty?" asks one of the guards - it doesn't matter which.
"Take him to the stockade!"
"Yes, ma'am," says the other guard. Or maybe it's the same one. Who cares.
"No, please!" Hugh pleads as the guards begin to drag him away.
"Your Majesty, wait!" Archie calls out.
"I'll deal with you in a moment," the Queen says without deigning to look in Archie's direction.
"Any and all punishments should be directed at me. Hugh -"
The Queen turns sharply to look at him, her eyes as steely and piercing as daggers. "You mean to tell me you know this charlatan?"
"He is here at my behest," Archie admits.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Your Highness, if I may..." Fawkes says tentatively, and waits for his Queen to gesture her permission to speak before continuing: "I believe Mister Sellers was trying to fake his own death in order to escape his royal service."
"Is this true, Archie?" the Queen asks, already knowing that Fawkes is correct and seemingly downcast because of it.
"Yes." Archie sounds apologetic; unable to look the Queen in the eyes, he stares down at the ground.
"My word," Scrivens exclaims.
"I had no idea you were so thoroughly unhappy in my employ," the Queen says sadly.
"Well..."
"Your dishonesty has injured me greatly."
"It was not my intention to -"
"And how did you expect I'd react to your death - real or not?"
Archie wasn't expecting this question, and his surprise shows. Now he is forced to consider his actions, he understands how unfair they were, how cruel he has been. Since they met, albeit only yesterday, the Queen has been nothing but kind and honest to him, and in return, he has disrespected her in the worst way possible.
"I... I..." He doesn't know what to say. He has no worthy justification or excuse.
"Guards," the Queen says, turning away from Archie for the time being and gesturing to Hugh, "escort this wretch to the castle gates, and see that his likeness is posted at every entrance. You, sir," she tells Hugh directly, "are banned for life!"
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hugh cries in relief as he is taken away. "Your benevolence is unequalled across the entire world!"
"Doctor Scrivens," the Queen says, addressing her oldest - perhaps only - friend next, "I sincerely regret having to bring our reunion dinner to a close before it has even begun. I hope you understand."
"Of course," Scrivens replies magnanimously.
He takes the Queen's hands in his and kisses her on the cheek before he exits.
Finally, the Queen turns to Archie, who gulps. "Archie," she says. "Won't you sit down at table with me?"
"Your Highness!" Fawkes ejaculates.
"Sit at the table? With you?" Archie is as scandalised as Fawkes. "But -"
"Your Queen has made a demand. Obey or face the consequences." She sits, stares at Archie until he reluctantly complies.
"Ma'am," Fawkes interjects, "this is highly irregular."
"Quit your complaining and bring us our chalices."
Swallowing down the bitterness he feels - Is that jealousy? - Fawkes collects both chalices and complies with his employer's wishes.
Unbeknownst to Archie and the Queen, Fawkes takes a vial from his pocket and empties the contents into Archie's chalice while they speak.
"Now, Archie. I'm not going to punish you for this... little joke of yours, but you have to promise me you will never try anything like it ever again."
"I appreciate your mercy under such circumstances, I do; I just don't think I'm the right fit for this job."
"I hope it has nothing to do with me -"
"No, it's -"
Fawkes places the chalices in front of them. Archie waits until he walks away, then leans in closer to the Queen.
He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper: "To be perfectly honest, I'm afraid to die."
Without warning, the Queen kisses Archie.
Archie is surprised, but doesn't resist.
Fawkes can't bear to watch. It is obvious now that he is in love with the Queen. (How did you not notice it before?) He must have been in love with her for a long time, considering how many food-taster-slash-cupbearers she has lost over the years.
The Queen leans closer to Archie, pressing her body against him, but Archie pulls away. He knows he's going to kick himself for this later, but in the moment he feels it is the right thing to do, and after everything, he owes her that.
"Your Majesty, I can't -"
"I'll show you how."
"I'm just a peasant."
The Queen sighs. "You don't know any good Kings who are available, perchance?"
"Not off the top of my head," Archie answers honestly, regrettably.
"There is no one in the world who is my equal in wealth or power," the Queen laments, "and that makes for a lonely life." It's clearly a thought that is never far from her mind.
Archie feels a wave of empathy crash over him. "I had no idea you felt that way."
"I know this strong, serious, sexy exterior can be intimidating, but it is a façade. Well, not the 'sexy' part, obviously," she adds in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"You will find a man worthy of you, Your Grace, I don't doubt it." He may not know this for sure, but he feels it is the truth with every ounce of his being. Any man would be lucky to have a wife like her, as he is lucky to have her as his Queen.
Archie may not doubt it, but the Queen clearly does. Regardless, she puts on a smile. "Archie, you're fired," she tells him in a gentle, almost demure tone.
"What?" says Fawkes.
"What?" says Archie, almost simultaneously. "Are you serious?"
"If that is your desire," the Queen clarifies.
"But that evil poisoner is still on the loose..."
"Yes, that is a nightly worry of mine," she tells him truthfully. "But Fawkes can take up the duties of food taster and cupbearer until your replacement is found."
"Yes, ma'am!" Fawkes cries. "To drink this fragrant wine at your side would be my greatest honour."
The Queen rolls her eyes, and both she and Archie smile in amusement. "It is settled," she says, then quietly, so only Archie can hear: "I just hope he isn't such a creep when he's drunk."
"Thank you, oh thank you, Your Majesty! I am forever in your debt."
The Queen waves Archie's words away. "Leave, now, before my heart overpowers my head."
Archie is about to get up to leave, when the feeling of intense gratitude and undying reverence overwhelms him, at the realisation that he has just been given the gift of years added to his short lifespan. "If I may: will you allow me the privilege of sharing one last drink with you before I go?"
The Queen can't help but smile, despite the deep sorrow seeping into her skin and the weariness of her bones, as a renewed sense of profound loneliness permeates her thoughts. "With pleasure," she says.
They raise their chalices in an unspoken toast.
"Wait, stop!" shouts Fawkes, who rushes towards the table, arm outstretched, reaching for Archie's chalice, hoping he'll be able to knock it out of his hand in time.
This goes unnoticed, as Archie and the Queen move the chalices to their lips for a drink.
The Queen's Antechamber
It is much too decadent to describe. That would honestly be a waste of precious time and would probably require a dictionary. A better option, if you're wondering what this particular Queen's antechamber looks like, is to picture the most tacky, over-the-top person you know - if no one instantly comes to mind, that's because it's you - and imagine how they would decorate if they were alive during the Rococo period of the 18th century and had an essentially unlimited budget.
Yes, it truly is that bad.
Oh, and if you're wondering what exactly an antechamber is: well, it's basically a slightly smaller room that leads to the bedroom - like a waiting room, you could say, because what monarch worth their salt doesn't need an entirely separate room for their subjects to form a queue in right outside the room where they have sex? It saves a lot of hassle.
Sure, there is also an antechamber before the throne room, but this one is definitely before the Queen's bedroom. You can tell because it's bigger. Grander. More garish.
This is where our story begins.
Currently inside the antechamber are four men. Three of them are completely insignificant - well, perhaps not to their loved ones, but they have little bearing on this story - so don't worry about their names. The fourth man is called Hugh.
Each of these men is holding but - importantly - not reading a roll of parchment.
Then a fifth man - Archie - enters the room, slightly breathless. Hugh waves his best friend over, and forces the man next to him to stand so Archie can sit.
(See, the nameless guys aren't even important enough for chairs. Don't worry, they'll be gone soon, then you'll never have to think about them again.)
"I see you are late, as usual, my friend," Hugh says to Archie as he takes his seat. "What's the excuse this time? Horse wouldn't start?"
Okay, so obviously the 18th-century dialect spoken by the aristocracy is a little different to yours, my modern-day reader, with your casual pronunciation, colloquialisms and text slang. But when it comes to the average person back then, eating stale bread and stew, drinking ale instead of water, dying of infection or the shits, surely there are some similarities between their speech and what you're used to. Also, bear in mind that although Archie and Hugh may (at times) read quite posh, especially when you compare them to yourself, that's not how they sound. They are actually both lower-class, common-as-muck types, not dignitaries or noblemen. Something to take into account when you're imagining their accents.
"She's a stubborn creature..." Archie responds. "But no, I got lost."
Hugh laughs. "It's the castle; you can see it from the farthest reaches of the kingdom!"
"Actually, that's a myth," Archie informs his friend. "I heard that during one of those TED talks in the square."
Fine, I clearly play a little fast and loose with the historical accuracy. So sue me.
"It's the Queen's house!" Hugh exclaims.
"I know where the castle is! I spend five days a week begging for change in its shadow. But there are so many rooms... It's like a maze."
"Maybe if you picked up shifts on the weekends, your fingers wouldn't be in my purse so often."
"If I get this job - when I get this job - I can pay back all I owe and more."
"Sorry, job's taken," Hugh says with confidence. "Her Highness won't be able to resist this smile." He shows off the teeth he has left - about two-thirds of them - with a wide grin, which, to be fair to him, is relatively appealing compared to most of his peers, including Archie. "There aren't many men our age, in our socioeconomic demographic, with over half their teeth left, you know." He gives Archie a meaningful look, and the twinkle in his eye seems to add: "You, my friend, not being one of them".
Archie tries to mask his envy by rolling his eyes. "I'm sure the most famous woman in the country isn't so superficial as you suggest," he says, and hopes it's true. "Why are you even here?" he asks Hugh, suddenly feeling somewhat affronted by the previously overlooked possibility of his best friend pulling the rug out from under him, especially considering how desperately he needs this job. "You already have employment."
"Not with the Queen, I don't! And the royal food-taster-slash-cupbearer... It's my dream job!"
"Dream job?" Archie is shocked - dismayed, even - by this opinion. "It's basically a human shield, without the glory of battle."
"Archie, Archie, Archie," Hugh says, shaking his head slowly and looking at the friend sitting next to him with a condescending expression, like he's dealing with an untrained and particularly witless animal. "It's free food and drink and a daily audience with Her Majesty!"
"A daily chance of death, more like!" Adam counters, his vehemence growing in direct proportion to Hugh's insouciance. "For minimum wage. There should at least be hazard pay!" The truth is, he really doesn't want this job, but unfortunately, he is in no position to be picky. You know what they say about beggars not being choosers; well, Archie is literally a beggar.
"Always the pessimist," Hugh responds, and shows his teeth again in a casual half-smile. "The danger is imagined, I tell you. People don't just go around trying to poison the Queen." His patronising tone is infuriating.
"What makes you so sure?" Archie leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, subconsciously giving Hugh space to present his logic while simultaneously closing himself off from it.
"It's widely known that the servants like to gossip. Have you heard about any poisonings?"
"No." The word leaves Archie's mouth reluctantly.
"Read about any murders or attempted murders in the castle?"
"I can't read," Archie reminds him.
"So that's a no, then?" Now Hugh is making fun of his friend.
"Obviously it's a no."
"Seen any guards throwing the corpses of previous food-tasters-slash-cupbearers out of castle windows?" He makes an expansive gesture that encompasses the room, the whole castle, with this last hypothetical, using the roll of parchment in his hand for emphasis.
"Of course not," Archie answers, his lips set into a tight line. He isn't seeing the humour in this.
"Well then, there you have it!" Hugh's point has well and truly been made. To summarise: "If it looks like a cow, smells like a cow, and feels like a cow, don't fuck it."
Appalled, Archie opens his mouth to say something, but at that exact moment, the Queen's Lord Chamberlain enters. That's his job title, not his name, by the way. His name is Fawkes. For ease, think of him as the Queen's PA.
"Mister A. Sellers," Fawkes calls to the room at large.
On hearing his name, Archie raises his hand and rises to his feet awkwardly. He tentatively approaches Fawkes with a polite smile - making a conscious effort to keep his lips pressed firmly together, in order to hide his glaring lack of teeth.
"I see you arrived late," Fawkes says. He has to lean his head far back in order to be able to peer down his nose at the taller man.
"Yes, sorry, I -"
Fawkes thrusts a roll of parchment at Archie. "Terms of service," he explains. "You can spend a moment reading over it, if you'd like, but please be sure to sign it before you leave."
Archie makes a show of 'reading' the document, scratching his chin and nodding his head - the works.
Fawkes slowly takes the parchment out of Archie's hands, turns it the right way 'round, and gives it back to him. "Simply draw an 'X' in your own hand somewhere near the bottom," says Fawkes in a haughty tone, straining his neck even more so he has to squint past his own protruding chin just to see the face of the man he considers to be far beneath him. He hands Archie a quill.
Without any more pretence, Archie does as he's told. Fawkes then snatches the quill and parchment from him.
"Her Highness will see you first. Follow me."
Archie gulps. He was expecting to have more time to mentally prepare.
Hugh meets him in the middle of the room and pats him on the back. "Warm her up for me!" he says jovially.
Archie glares at his so-called best friend and flashes him a surface smile before exiting.
Chapter Two
The Queen's Bedchamber
The Queen - young and buxom, with a perpetual glint in her eye which conveys her expectation to be treated as befitting royalty in her court but as a courtesan in the boudoir (or, to put it simply: a lady in the street but a freak in the bed) - is sitting on her divan, removing her shiny and weighty accessories, as Archie enters the bedchamber behind Fawkes. The fact that she's able to move around freely for hours on end while wearing those things is a testament to her physical strength, as well as her mental fortitude.
"Your Majesty," Fawkes announces, in a much more pleasant tone than the one he used with Archie moments earlier, "may I present Mister Archibald Sellers."
"Archie's fine."
The Queen immediately, shamelessly, undresses Archie with her eyes, and she likes what she sees. "Pleasure, I'm sure," she says, standing and proffering her hand, fingers pointing downwards, in greeting.
Archie, unfamiliar with standard customs of etiquette, awkwardly shakes this strangely presented hand rather than kiss it. This discourteous behaviour disgusts Fawkes a disproportionate amount, and he pulls a face like he's just tasted something revolting; yet Archie's action only makes the Queen giggle, as if she's been presented with some amusing curio from a foreign land.
She looks Archie up and down for a long moment, and he squirms under her gaze, feeling her eyes move about him like the rats that pester him in the nights and gave his parents the plague.
"Please, take a seat," she suggests as she sits down and pats the space beside her on the divan.
Fawkes clears his throat involuntarily.
"I, erm -" Archie stutters.
"Sit," the Queen interrupts, speaking more firmly. "Sit, sit."
Archie has no choice but to obey. He perches on the edge of the seat, as far away from the Queen as the divan will allow.
The Queen leans towards him and sniffs.
"Not bad, considering," is her assessment.
"Err..." is all Archie is able to say in response.
Fortunately for Fawkes, his eye roll goes unnoticed.
As far as job interviews go, this one is a little unusual, but Archie's definitely had worse. The one for public executioner comes to mind - his foot has only just healed.
"You understand the duties of the position?" the Queen enquires.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What do you think you can bring to the role?"
"Well... Good question." Archie tries to think on his feet, so to speak. "I'm loyal, err, dependable -"
"That's nice." She seems bored, and gives a flippant gesture with her hand. "I'll let you know if space opens up in the kennels; you can hunt foxes with the other dependable beasts."
"I'm a team player," is Archie's next attempt.
"What sport?" is the Queen's facetious reply.
"I'm positive."
"You're sure?"
"Flexible."
"Now we're talking." The Queen's eyebrows raise and she smiles.
"Hard working."
"How hard?" The smile grows into a grin and the eyebrows wiggle.
"What -"
"We live in dangerous times," the Queen digresses; she begins combing her fingers through her hair. "As a woman, I need strong, obedient men around to protect me. You agree that women need to be protected?"
"Actually," Archie answers honestly, "I think women are ferocious and remarkable, and can do anything a man..." He trails off when he realises the Queen is glaring at him in both doubt and dissatisfaction. "I mean, yeah, sure. I can protect you."
"I feel safer already." This is spoken with feigned seriousness but a lack of conviction. "You may go," she concludes, with a flick of her wrist.
"Okay," Archie says, a sense of relief spilling over him like piss out of a top-floor window. "Should I -"
"Go, go, go," the Queen demands, pointing at the door until Archie exits.
Fawkes steps forward to hear her verdict, confident that it will be negative.
"I'm tired," Her Majesty says with a huff and a sigh. "He'll do."
"Are you sure? I have reservations about -"
"Are you questioning me?" The Queen's voice is loud and shrill. She really has no patience with Fawkes.
Fawkes instantly loses his voice. His mouth moves, but no sound escapes.
The Queen flicks her wrist again; Fawkes bows, exits.
Chapter Three
The Royal Dining Room - The Next Morning
Two unimportant, nameless servants gossip in hushed tones - something about a sordid scandal involving an exiled writer and a young boy - as they set the dining table, which is large enough to be a status symbol all by itself.
The Queen enters, wearing a luxurious dressing gown over her flowing silk negligée and swinging around a flamboyant chalice. She is closely followed by Fawkes, who is dutifully carrying a decanter of wine.
Archie stumbles along behind them, him with his own, significantly less extravagant chalice. A drunken sluggishness has descended over him.
The servants quickly hurry from the room without pausing in their gossiping. They've moved onto news about a rumoured revolution across the ocean, possibly involving cake.
The Queen sits at her place at the table. She waves her chalice at Fawkes, spilling some wine. Fawkes motions to fill it.
"What do you think you're doing?" The Queen snaps, moving her chalice away before Fawkes has chance to top it up.
Fawkes is taken aback. "Fulfilling Your Majesty's desire by filling the royal chalice," he answers sheepishly.
"Conspiring in regicide, more like!"
Fawkes balks at this. "Ma'am, I would never -"
"So you say," the Queen slurs slightly, "but did you not just try to entice me to drink before the royal cupbearer has assured us of the wine's harmlessness, as well as its richness and fruity aftertaste!" It's unclear whether she is truly outraged, or simply jesting for sport at Fawkes' expense.
"But," Fawkes splutters, "Your Highness, Mister Sellers has already partaken of this particular vintage. Twice."
"Insolence!"
"Apologies!" Fawkes cries. "I didn't mean to - I wouldn't dare -"
"It is forgotten," The Queen says, already bored of the conversation.
"Serving Your Majesty is my only purpose! I shudder to think -"
"Silence! Before I lose my appetite. You are forgiven, Fawkes, despite yourself." She shows him a savage smile. "Now, be quick to pour that wine before my tongue loses its sweetness and my brain this wicked buzz."
Fawkes almost falls over himself as he rushes to fill Archie's chalice, then the Queen's.
Archie doesn't look too happy about having a cup that runneth over, but he forces himself to take a small sip under the scrutinous gaze of his employer. The wine makes him gag - clearly, he's not experienced in consuming so much alcohol.
The Queen, obviously trying to get him drunk, smiles into her own chalice as she gulps down half of its contents.
"Why do you loiter so far away, Archie?" she asks. "Come stand by me."
Archie does as commanded, taking up a position at her side, but knowing better than to sit down.
"You look sickly." The Queen is all innocence as she says this. She plays the part well. "How are you feeling?" You can imagine that many a man has underestimated her in the past, right before she's bedded them then bitten their heads off like a black widow spider.
"That depends," Archie responds, "what time is it?"
"Nine in the morning," Fawkes informs him.
"Then not good."
"You mean to say," the Queen says in a mock-offended tone, "that you're not enjoying your first day on the job?"
"Oh, Your Highness, no. I would never say that to your face." Uncommonly drunk though he may be, Archie is attached to his head enough to have more sense than to resort to honesty.
"And what do you mean by that?" The Queen may be pretending to be stern, but the curl of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes are a sure sign that she's enjoying this.
"Err, nothing..." Archie is even less accustomed to verbal gymnastics than he is to day drinking. He should just leave it at that, but of course he doesn't: "Just, if I were to harbour such unfavourable thoughts - which I definitely do not, and never will, for that matter - I would find it hard to speak such thoughts out loud in Your Majesty's presence, for fear of dampening those piercing eyes or creasing your well-tamed brow." He has a lot to learn.
Yet, despite Archie's flagrant lack of tact (particularly when trying especially hard to be tactful), or perhaps because of such an idiosyncrasy, the Queen seems more amused than annoyed. "You are a very articulate drunk," she observes. "An unusual yet endearing trait."
Fawkes struggles to hide his chagrin. He really doesn't understand what his Queen sees in this ape masquerading as a human. "Would you like your breakfast sent in now, Your Majesty?" he says, trying to capture her attention.
The Queen, however, doesn't take her eyes from Archie. "I have yet to find my appetite," she says. "Perhaps after another glass."
"But, ma'am -"
"So, Archie," the Queen says, speaking over Fawkes, his presence of no interest to her. "The words you said may sound as sweet as the wine coursing through your veins, but they do nothing to assuage this gnawing sensation at the back of one's head."
"It is not my intention to cause Your Highness any discomfort -"
"I have Fawkes here for all that 'Your High Majesty' shit. I want to know I can trust you to be honest with me."
"You can, I swear it," Archie says, finding that simpler, shorter lies are easier to get away with.
"Pinky promise?"
"What?" Archie has never heard of such a thing before. It must be a trend amongst the nobility.
"Do you swear in front of Almighty God?" the Queen clarifies. "And I don't mean the blasphemous kind of swearing."
"I, err... I guess so." Archie thanks... Well, he doesn't have Anyone to thank, per se, but he is definitely thankful in this moment that he secretly holds the unpopular belief that there is no big, bearded Guy in the sky, manipulating him and everyone he knows like chess pieces (though he wouldn't admit that to anyone, not even Hugh).
The Queen gestures for him to actually make a promise to God, as if that All-Knowing, All-Seeing, All-Singing, All-Dancing genius Work of Fiction is literally waiting with His arms crossed, tapping His foot impatiently.
Archie shrugs internally - What harm could it do? He puts his hands together and closes his eyes in prayer.
"Do you think God can read minds?" the Queen asks. "You have to shout it, or He won't hear you."
Archie opens his eyes to look at the Queen, his brows furrowed. Surely she must be joking. But no, she seems serious enough. Archie sighs, resigned to the charade. "ALMIGHTY GOD -"
"I don't know which God you worship," the Queen interrupts, "but mine lives in the Heavens above."
Just get it over with, Archie thinks as he looks skyward. "ALMIGHTY -"
"And get on your knees. You must kneel when swearing an oath before God."
Seriously? Archie kneels. He looks at the sky, hands clasped and outstretched, and is about to implore the ceiling... when the Queen bursts out laughing.
Archie realises the joke immediately and joins the Queen in laughter, though his is more in relief than actual humour.
It takes some time for the laughter to die down. All the while, Fawkes watches them with annoyance painted on his face in bright red and shades of purple.
"I don't know what it is," the Queen confides, "but there's something about you, Archie... I never thought I'd find a better attendant than your predecessor, my former food taster and cupbearer, Mister Peter Knight - in name only, not in rank - but you are quickly proving my doubts to be unfounded."
"I've been meaning to ask: what exactly made you fire your last food taster and cupbearer? It must've been bad."
"I didn't fire him. I've never fired anyone."
"Oh, err... What -"
"He died, in the line of duty."
"He was...?" Archie can't bring himself to say the word.
"Poisoned, yes," the Queen finishes for him. She seems unaffected by the untimely death of an apparently appreciated employee. "And we are yet to capture the vile perpetrator. As I've said, these are dangerous times. I'm glad you are here to protect me." She smiles at Archie, who tries to smile back, but he looks like he's about to be sick. "We need to do something about your complexion," the Queen comments, moving the conversation along easily.
"May I be excused?" Archie sounds as ill as he looks.
The Queen takes one look at him and grants his request with a wave of the hand. Archie runs out of the room, a hand to his mouth, in search of the nearest commode.
Fawkes watches Archie go, then turns to look at the Queen. His expression says it all.
"Oh, fuck off," the Queen says in a much rougher voice than she uses with Archie - or anyone, really. "He just needs a little training. Carrot and stick. Now, where's my breakfast? I'm dying of starvation."
Fawkes inclines his head - though he doesn't go far enough for it to be considered a bow - before he exits.
The Queen makes a mental note to punish Fawkes for treating her with an inappropriate amount of familiarity. Perhaps a good lashing will restore some of his old obsequiousness.
Chapter Four
The Royal Dining Room - That Evening
The Queen is still in her pyjamas. She seems more sober than earlier, but she is in fact much more drunk.
Fawkes enters in a rush. "Your Highness, shouldn't you get dressed? Doctor Scrivens is due to arrive at any moment."
"The good doctor has seen me in less appropriate garb - and in less garb, for that matter." The Queen snorts at her own wittiness. It is extremely unbecoming.
"Ma'am -" Fawkes tries.
"Whatever your thoughts, eject them from your mind. The doctor and I have been friends since childhood, and that is the beginning and end of that. In fact, eject yourself from this room at once; I have the opposite of use for you at present."
Fawkes opens his mouth to say something, but a look from the Queen, as well as the burning imprints he can still feel on his back from his flogging earlier, are enough to stop the words dead on his tongue. Instead, he bows low and leaves.
Suddenly struck by an afterthought, the Queen calls after him: "And send in -" Archie is forcefully pushed through the dining room's grand double doors before she can finish her request. Her voice instantly changes from stormy to sunshine: "Archie, my dear, lovely to see you. Where have you been?"
"I... I passed out with my head inside the royal shit-hole." It's an obvious lie, but the Queen is both too self-absorbed and not sober enough to notice.
"Count your blessings it wasn't the servants' quarters you stumbled into," she says nonchalantly, as if this kind of thing happens to her all the time.
"I shall, as soon as my head settles enough for me to count."
"Very good," the Queen replies appreciatively. "Wait here while I change into a more fitting outfit for dinner."
"Is what you're wearing the wrong size? It looks fine to me." His booze-addled brain isn't exactly performing to its usual standard - not that its usual standard is particularly impressive to begin with.
"What? No." The Queen is more than a little confused by Archie's comment. "Just... protect the wine. I shan't be long."
She places her chalice on the table before leaving him alone in the dining room.
Archie stands around for a while, unsure of what to do while he waits. Eventually his eyes settle on the Queen's ornate chair, which is, as always, positioned at the centre of the table. He checks the coast is clear before creeping over to it like a pantomime villain. Milking the moment for all it's worth, Archie slowly lowers himself into the chair; he leans back, his legs outstretched beneath the table, his hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. He's really enjoying this.
For all of ten seconds.
That's how long he gets before his old friend Hugh enters the room, doing his best to skulk but being about as inconspicuous as an elephant with an allergy to fashionable furniture and pompous paintings.
Archie jumps up at the sound of Hugh's entrance.
"Archie, there you are," Hugh says in lieu of a greeting. "This place is a maze."
"Ahh, Hugh..." Archie says with a relieved sigh. "You caught me off guard. I thought -"
"Will you please tell me why you dragged me here? If I'm not back within the hour, Dad'll take it out of my wages."
"I need you to pretend to be a doctor," Archie says simply. His expression tells Hugh that this is of the utmost importance.
"Seriously, Archie, one of these days you're going to get me arrested."
"Will you do it?" Archie's tone is pleading.
Hugh understands that this is the kind of no-questions-asked scenario that only occurs between best friends at times of absolute desperation. "Yeah, I'll do it," he says. But he is only able to hold his tongue for the time it takes Archie to show him a grateful grin before he just has to ask: "Why am I doing it?"
"So I can fake my own death."
"What?" Hugh can't tell if that is supposed to be a joke. It isn't April yet, is it? He thought he could smell alcohol (and vomit) when he approached Archie, so maybe his friend has just had one too many.
Archie elaborates: "This job is going to kill me! It's my only way out."
"Why don't you just quit?"
"I tried! Fawkes laughed in my face. Apparently, the only ways out of the contract are if the Queen fires me, or if one - or both - of us dies."
"Speak with the Queen," Hugh suggests.
"I can't." This is said in a despairing, drawn-out whine.
"Why not?"
"Her Majesty... I think she..." Archie struggles to say it out loud, but he knows he has to confide in someone - and who better than his best, his only, friend? "I think she's, err, infatuated with me."
Hugh laughs uproariously.
Some friend.
"I'm being serious," Archie says testily.
"I can tell," Hugh says, wiping his eyes. "So, what's the plan?"
"Simple: I fake my death; you, a young local doctor wandering the castle after treating a poor girl in the servants' quarters, overhear my tragic and untimely demise -"
"Fake demise," Hugh points out.
"- and burst into the room. You offer your help, pronounce my death, and insist on disposing of my remains."
"For a small fee!" Hugh shows his teeth at the thought of making some money out of this.
"No improvising! Just carry me out of the room and we're golden. Got it?"
Hugh shrugs. He mumbles something that Archie can't quite hear.
"What was that?"
"As you wish," Hugh says louder, though he still doesn't seem happy about it.
"Good." Archie takes his friend by the shoulders and directs him towards the servants' entrance. "Go wait out here where you won't be seen. I've left something for you in the storeroom across the corridor."
"Aww, you shouldn't have!" Hugh says. Like a magpie that has spotted a new shiny thing, his disappointment from mere moments ago is all but forgotten. "What is it?"
"Just something to make you more believable as a physician. You'll see it as soon as you open the door."
Archie ushers Hugh out of the door, and just in time, for the Queen returns at that very moment. (Yes, the timing is unbelievably convenient, but it's my story, so deal with it.)
"Archie, who are you waiting for?" the Queen asks when she sees him loitering by the other door.
"Only for you."
"At the servants' entrance?" The Queen puts her hand to her bosom in an exaggerated show of taking offence. "You do me a great injustice."
"Apologies, Your - I'm still rather dizzy from breakfast. And I missed lunch completely."
"Your lightweightedness is amusing to me," the Queen remarks with a smile.
Fawkes enters just ahead of a handsome man, not rich but certainly not poor either, around the Queen's age. This is Doctor Ernest Scrivens, the Queen's old friend (she mentioned him earlier, if you remember) and dinner guest for the evening.
"Your Majesty," Fawkes announces, "Doctor Scrivens has arrived."
"Doctor?" Archie says as an aside.
"Thank you for the commentary," the Queen says to Fawkes. "I am not blind - though sometimes I wish it to look at you."
"Still as prickly as ever, I see," Scrivens says with good-natured derision, his voice sonorous.
"Doctor," the Queen responds, "I have a wart on my finger; maybe you could examine it for me." She puts her middle finger up at him.
"And as crass!" the Doctor exclaims with a booming laugh. "Oh, how I've missed you."
The Queen and the Doctor embrace.
"Dear Doctor, allow me to introduce you to the newest member of my staff: Archie. Archie, this is my good friend, Doctor Ernest Scrivens."
Archie bows slightly, then takes the hand that Scrivens proffers.
"How do you do?" Scrivens asks politely as he vigorously shakes Archie's hand, almost crushing the younger man's bones into dust with his firm grip.
"Archie is surprisingly wise and humorous for a peasant," the Queen informs Scrivens.
"There are a few flecks of gold in each pan of dirt," Scrivens says sagely.
"Though none are as wise as you. Oh, Doctor, I have missed you thoroughly. How long has it been?"
"Since before I spent those two weeks fixing cleft palates on the African continent," Scrivens answers without hesitation. "Almost -"
Suddenly, two guards crash through the door connecting the dining room to the servants' quarters, hauling a struggling Hugh between them, whose impassioned objections are yelled in an adopted posh accent.
Both of these guards actually speak, but their names are still unimportant.
"Ma'am, we found this man with his ear to the door," says the first guard.
"He had this with him," says the second guard, throwing down a large, gleaming silver ladle. "It's likely he stole it from the storeroom."
"What a strangely distorted spoon," observes the Queen.
"I believe it's a soup ladle, Your Majesty," Fawkes enlightens her.
The Queen throws her most loyal employee a withering look. "I don't believe I asked for your opinion, Fawkes." He's quickly becoming persona non grata today.
"I was just wondering, perfect stranger," Archie chimes in, a certain edge to his voice, "why were you carrying a ladle?"
"Well, I'm a doctor," Hugh replies with unmerited aplomb. "A renowned doctor." His chest puffed out, he pulls his arms free of the guards' grasps. "I've just seen to a patient in the servants' quarters." He stoops down to retrieve the ladle, then straightens up and brandishes it like he's Arthur having just pulled Excalibur from the stone. "This is no mere ladle; it is an important medical instrument."
Archie covers his face with his hand, closes his eyes and shakes his head. Being poisoned isn't sounding quite so bad right about now.
"All Her Majesty's servants have health insurance," Fawkes explains. "We have access to one of the kingdom's most highly skilled doctors."
"You flatter me, Fawkes," Scrivens says in a spuriously humble manner.
"Doctors don't just carry ladles around," Archie says, still trying to shield himself from Hugh's humiliation with his hand.
"Don't they?" Hugh asks, his confidence wavering for the first time.
"They certainly don't," Scrivens answers.
"And who are you?" Hugh asks, his commitment to the role rejuvenated in the face of this new detractor. "An expert on doctors?"
"Well -" Scrivens tries to respond.
"Doctors carry apothecary bags!" Archie blurts out, no longer able to contain his exasperation. "Which is a coincidence, because I saw one in that very storeroom when I was in there earlier today!"
"Oh, really?" Hugh scratches his neck with the ladle. "I didn't notice it."
"Enough!" interrupts Scrivens. "I do not believe that this man is a medical practitioner."
"I am!"
"Let me see your credentials."
"I left them in my other coat."
"Enough bullshit," the Queen demands. She found the absurdity of the whole situation amusing at first - a welcome distraction from the fact that she has somehow sobered up much more than she finds tolerable - but the current back and forth is particularly grating to her nerves. "Seize him!"
Hugh looks to Archie for help, but on seeing his so-called best friend's grimace and slight shrug, Hugh turns to run.
The guards, however, are quicker than he'd hoped, and they seize him with ease.
The Queen approaches the pretend doctor ominously. "Now I hate to be a cliché," she says, savouring every syllable, "but I love a good beheading. Tell me why you are -"
Archie panics; he grabs the Queen's chalice from where she had laid it on the table earlier, downs as much of its contents as he is able, then slams it back onto the table.
Everyone stares at him, speechless. His actions seem excessive, unnecessary.
He looks at each of their faces in turn, taking in their expressions, which range from curiosity to consternation, the silence between them becoming imposing to the point of unbearable.
Suddenly, Archie goes into a convulsive fit.
He fakes his death, dramatically, surprisingly believably.
He'd win an award, if only such things existed in this era.
The Queen screeches at the horror she's been forced to witness.
"Hands off me, you brutes!" Hugh cries out, his posh accent exaggerated and the level of drama hyperbolic even for this situation. "I must tend to that man, for I am the doctor here."
"Funny," says Scrivens, "that is what I was about to say. Well, except for the first part."
Doctor Scrivens strides over to Archie, leans over to examine him, which takes barely any time and minimal contact, then straightens first his spine and second his dinner jacket.
"There's nothing wrong with him!" is the diagnosis. "Bloody scoundrel."
"You can conclude that after such a brief examination?" enquires Fawkes.
"That, and the cad just put his finger to his lips and whispered 'please'."
At that, Archie sighs and clambers to his feet, the mortification plain on his face. He would gratefully drink poison for real if it were offered to him in this moment; anything to get out of a situation so utterly embarrassing.
"Does this mean the royal chalice wasn't poisoned?" the Queen asks for clarification.
"That's exactly it, Your Highness," Fawkes says ingratiatingly, "well inferred."
"In that case, why is it empty?" Her tone is malicious.
Fawkes rushes to fill the Queen's chalice.
"What shall we do with the intruder, Your Majesty?" asks one of the guards - it doesn't matter which.
"Take him to the stockade!"
"Yes, ma'am," says the other guard. Or maybe it's the same one. Who cares.
"No, please!" Hugh pleads as the guards begin to drag him away.
"Your Majesty, wait!" Archie calls out.
"I'll deal with you in a moment," the Queen says without deigning to look in Archie's direction.
"Any and all punishments should be directed at me. Hugh -"
The Queen turns sharply to look at him, her eyes as steely and piercing as daggers. "You mean to tell me you know this charlatan?"
"He is here at my behest," Archie admits.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Your Highness, if I may..." Fawkes says tentatively, and waits for his Queen to gesture her permission to speak before continuing: "I believe Mister Sellers was trying to fake his own death in order to escape his royal service."
"Is this true, Archie?" the Queen asks, already knowing that Fawkes is correct and seemingly downcast because of it.
"Yes." Archie sounds apologetic; unable to look the Queen in the eyes, he stares down at the ground.
"My word," Scrivens exclaims.
"I had no idea you were so thoroughly unhappy in my employ," the Queen says sadly.
"Well..."
"Your dishonesty has injured me greatly."
"It was not my intention to -"
"And how did you expect I'd react to your death - real or not?"
Archie wasn't expecting this question, and his surprise shows. Now he is forced to consider his actions, he understands how unfair they were, how cruel he has been. Since they met, albeit only yesterday, the Queen has been nothing but kind and honest to him, and in return, he has disrespected her in the worst way possible.
"I... I..." He doesn't know what to say. He has no worthy justification or excuse.
"Guards," the Queen says, turning away from Archie for the time being and gesturing to Hugh, "escort this wretch to the castle gates, and see that his likeness is posted at every entrance. You, sir," she tells Hugh directly, "are banned for life!"
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hugh cries in relief as he is taken away. "Your benevolence is unequalled across the entire world!"
"Doctor Scrivens," the Queen says, addressing her oldest - perhaps only - friend next, "I sincerely regret having to bring our reunion dinner to a close before it has even begun. I hope you understand."
"Of course," Scrivens replies magnanimously.
He takes the Queen's hands in his and kisses her on the cheek before he exits.
Finally, the Queen turns to Archie, who gulps. "Archie," she says. "Won't you sit down at table with me?"
"Your Highness!" Fawkes ejaculates.
"Sit at the table? With you?" Archie is as scandalised as Fawkes. "But -"
"Your Queen has made a demand. Obey or face the consequences." She sits, stares at Archie until he reluctantly complies.
"Ma'am," Fawkes interjects, "this is highly irregular."
"Quit your complaining and bring us our chalices."
Swallowing down the bitterness he feels - Is that jealousy? - Fawkes collects both chalices and complies with his employer's wishes.
Unbeknownst to Archie and the Queen, Fawkes takes a vial from his pocket and empties the contents into Archie's chalice while they speak.
"Now, Archie. I'm not going to punish you for this... little joke of yours, but you have to promise me you will never try anything like it ever again."
"I appreciate your mercy under such circumstances, I do; I just don't think I'm the right fit for this job."
"I hope it has nothing to do with me -"
"No, it's -"
Fawkes places the chalices in front of them. Archie waits until he walks away, then leans in closer to the Queen.
He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper: "To be perfectly honest, I'm afraid to die."
Without warning, the Queen kisses Archie.
Archie is surprised, but doesn't resist.
Fawkes can't bear to watch. It is obvious now that he is in love with the Queen. (How did you not notice it before?) He must have been in love with her for a long time, considering how many food-taster-slash-cupbearers she has lost over the years.
The Queen leans closer to Archie, pressing her body against him, but Archie pulls away. He knows he's going to kick himself for this later, but in the moment he feels it is the right thing to do, and after everything, he owes her that.
"Your Majesty, I can't -"
"I'll show you how."
"I'm just a peasant."
The Queen sighs. "You don't know any good Kings who are available, perchance?"
"Not off the top of my head," Archie answers honestly, regrettably.
"There is no one in the world who is my equal in wealth or power," the Queen laments, "and that makes for a lonely life." It's clearly a thought that is never far from her mind.
Archie feels a wave of empathy crash over him. "I had no idea you felt that way."
"I know this strong, serious, sexy exterior can be intimidating, but it is a façade. Well, not the 'sexy' part, obviously," she adds in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"You will find a man worthy of you, Your Grace, I don't doubt it." He may not know this for sure, but he feels it is the truth with every ounce of his being. Any man would be lucky to have a wife like her, as he is lucky to have her as his Queen.
Archie may not doubt it, but the Queen clearly does. Regardless, she puts on a smile. "Archie, you're fired," she tells him in a gentle, almost demure tone.
"What?" says Fawkes.
"What?" says Archie, almost simultaneously. "Are you serious?"
"If that is your desire," the Queen clarifies.
"But that evil poisoner is still on the loose..."
"Yes, that is a nightly worry of mine," she tells him truthfully. "But Fawkes can take up the duties of food taster and cupbearer until your replacement is found."
"Yes, ma'am!" Fawkes cries. "To drink this fragrant wine at your side would be my greatest honour."
The Queen rolls her eyes, and both she and Archie smile in amusement. "It is settled," she says, then quietly, so only Archie can hear: "I just hope he isn't such a creep when he's drunk."
"Thank you, oh thank you, Your Majesty! I am forever in your debt."
The Queen waves Archie's words away. "Leave, now, before my heart overpowers my head."
Archie is about to get up to leave, when the feeling of intense gratitude and undying reverence overwhelms him, at the realisation that he has just been given the gift of years added to his short lifespan. "If I may: will you allow me the privilege of sharing one last drink with you before I go?"
The Queen can't help but smile, despite the deep sorrow seeping into her skin and the weariness of her bones, as a renewed sense of profound loneliness permeates her thoughts. "With pleasure," she says.
They raise their chalices in an unspoken toast.
"Wait, stop!" shouts Fawkes, who rushes towards the table, arm outstretched, reaching for Archie's chalice, hoping he'll be able to knock it out of his hand in time.
This goes unnoticed, as Archie and the Queen move the chalices to their lips for a drink.
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