Ohh the king, what a lecherous bastard he is, they must think of me, spending time with his courtesans to entertain him, and with that all wine and rich food, no wonder that bastard's getting so fat. How I envy them!
If my dear mother were to allow me, I would hand over the matters of the state to her, or my wives, or by brothers, anybody willing to take the reign and responsibility of these millions of downtrodden souls barely surviving in this cruel harsh world, sucked to the bones by evil land lords, tax collectors, marauding band of thieves and robbers, and the terrible terrible wrath o mother nature. For as a King you feel the cries of every citizen, the hunger of every little child on the street. I would go to the forest, up the mountains, by the wise men, and live there. Be fed by the masses on bare sustenance, practice penance every day, cavort with the gods, discuss matters of great philosophical and intellectual importance. Make the lives of others better, serve others as a lowly man. Simple life, simple desires, content existence.
Instead, this. At the end of the day, after the royal duties have been completed, and I have avoided those regular parties with the excuse that my queens require my presence, I don't get to be gently cradled by my comfortable royal bed and onto the land of mother sleep. No, no, rather I will go to my wife, who will sing me praises before reminding me of my royal duties -- no, not the interesting kind -- of appointing an able treasurer because the former royal paymaster left a lot of holes in the books, and all the rest. And when I make an approach for physical intimacy, she will sigh and tell me to avail myself to my courtesans, 'ohh now you want me, I'm tired, go spend time with your whores, I'm sleeping now' she will say.
The courtesans have been trained in a thousand and one arts, from archery to poetry, their beauty is incomparable in all of the lands, and they would be suitable to hold any position whatsoever in the royal court. And yet they besiege me with tales of suspicious adversaries, questionable loyalty of others to the palace, and so forth as they massage me. By the end of the night, when my body is oily and fully massaged, my mind is running at a thousand mules a minute, I'm unable to concentrate on my royal duty. The Queen requires my services, I'll mumble before rushing into my personal chambers, surrounded by a small group of trusty guards. Oh how little they must think of me, how pathetic I must be in their minds, that my wife throws me to the courtesans and I use her excuse to run away to my chambers.
On good nights, and there are quite a few of those, the Queen will be waiting for me, in a mood to make amends. No words will be exchanged, my excuse to the courtesans won't have been a lie anymore. Often the decisions of the Palace are made with great forethought and consideration, and in the presence of an able Queen, the King will always remember why he prefers having her company over anybody else's.
And soon, cool breeze, and silence, save for the cry of the crickets faraway.
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