The Wise King sat in his crimson chair,
ignoring each and every stare;
for all who were awaiting there
had come to seek his righteous fare.
And even though they did not dare
to question kingly deeds and cares,
every now and then one glared
at the Herald who alighted there.
But he shot them back with a warning eye,
awaiting for the kingly sigh
that told him things were set to start;
when questions would be set upon The Wise King’s heart.
But the sigh this day was not to be,
for The Wise King rose slow and quietly.
And, turning away from the crowded glares,
he left the throne room by the crowded stairs.
The silence was tumultuously slaughtered,
as everyone who had come to barter
for their lives or souls or property
were made to feel like peasantry
by the dismissive nature of their royal.
Had they not always been as loyal
and as deserving of favour in the eyes of the man?
How dare then should he insult such as them
and turn his back on their affront!
Dissent had long been a blade kept blunt
by the Good and Wise and Proper King.
But the shouts now threatened a reckoning,
as petty people always cried
when their greed struck out and their kindness died.
Yet The Wise King in his chamber (with their sounds far from gone)
was unable to change the path he was on.
And the actions he had been forced to take –
and the vows and laws he might bend or break –
troubled his soul more than some disaffected cries.
Tomorrow he would appease them all with lies,
and that was contrary to all he represented.
‘The death of my virtue must be prevented,’
he said to his closest, most trusted advisors.
‘Worry not, my King, for we shall suffer neither
a coward nor tyrant king in our midst.
This plot shall be struck with an iron fist
and the lecherous villain who dost seek thy throne
will rue the day he set skin and bone
into thy court and troubled thy calm.
We shall find this traitor...this Lord Fensham.’