Today on Drabble Wednesday, we go medieval...
Warning: today’s post gets a bit icky.
Boy in the Kitchens
Turn the spit, turn the spit, turn the spit.
Alfred watched the meat sizzle, and cranked the handle round and round. Day after day, he sat, stared, and spun the roast.
“You boy! At the spit! We’ve a new job for you!”
Alfred looked up with glee, and eagerly relinquished his place to another kitchen lad. The royal butcher ushered him into a back pantry.
“Sorry boy, but the king wants special meat for his supper.”
Poor Alfred never saw the cleaver fall.
Come supper, another boy sat watching the sizzling meat that used to be Alfred.
Turn the spit.
The old room atop the temple held the perfect view of the queen’s procession route.
He watched her horse drawn, open carriage meandering its way up the street.
He took his time, lined up his bow, and let the arrow fly.
The projectile pierced the queen’s chest, and she crumpled like a doll.
The assassin patted his purse. The payment of the king's gold rattled with a beautiful sound, and he chuckled with proud satisfaction. Then he stepped over the body of the snooping priest he killed, snuck down the back stairs onto the street, and disappeared into the crowd.
Arabella stared at her reflection in the mirror, tucking a stray lock of hair into place. She applied red colour to her lips and cheeks. She mustn’t appear sallow on this day. Her audience with the king.
How lives turn on the will of that man.
She appraised her appearance. She looked thinner than a few months ago, but not gaunt. That was good. The newest royal concubine best not look sickly.
Can I do this?
She closed her eyes, taking a breath.
You don’t have a choice. You lost the rebellion. You become his, or die like your husband.
© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved