King Roibarb's Feast - Short Story

King Roibarb stood from his chair with an eruption of anger.

King Roibarb stood from his chair with an eruption of anger.

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner, when goats are Stam-peding through my kingdom!”

The messenger stuttered back a response, falling back towards the door to the great hall.

The Queen, the perfectly lovely and perfectly capricious Priscilla, rolled her eyes in the throne next to her husband’s.

“My love, the goats are merely maundering. Is it really worth getting your cape in a knot?”

“Have you ever heard of a king who allowed goats to saunter through his kingdom unchecked? No, I daresay it shall be the guillotine for all of them. Each and every one!”

“Oh, my love,” the queen sighed, “everyday with you is like Groundhog Day.”

The king leered at his perfectly lovely wife. “Groundhog Day doesn’t exist yet, Priscilla.”

“Oh, my apologies.”

Roibarb huffed, swung his brilliant red cape a few times behind him, and eventually settled back into his throne. “What are we to do?”

“I say we call forth the council.”

“Ha! You think we can trust them?” the king said.

“What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“Those scoundrels,” Roibarb growled, “are goat-supporters.”

Priscilla covered her mouth before she could control her reaction, releasing a quiet gasp.

“I know,” Roibarb said. “I’ve suspected it for some time. I fear it’s too late to rely on the council for support.”

“But they are your most trusted allies, are they not?”

“Not any longer. I suspect they will attempt to take my life within the week. We must stay ahead of them. We must call a feast and discern the traitors from those loyal to us.”

---

The servant, Meekes, was a young lad, barely into his late teens. He carried trays back and forth around the thrumming table, nobles from all over the country seated in their brilliant attire. Perhaps twenty in all, including the king and the queen, were here for an unknown reason. But Meekes knew. He knew his king would likely die today, or the goat-supporters would be sent to the block.

Roibarb stood at the head of the table, tapping a fork on his glass to call attention among the chattering nobles.

“Hear ye all ye mighty friends,” he began, “I bring you here today to celebrate. During troubled times like these, we must not forget what binds us together.”

Priscilla tuned out from her husband’s speech. He enjoyed these, but they tended to drone on. She studied the ladies, their colorful dresses, and how the Countess Beretha dared to wear puffier sleeves than her queen. A petty display that Priscilla wouldn’t let escape without mention.

There were two flower displays set up on the long table, two towering layers of white petals and pink blooms. Priscilla always required at least two such displays at events like this. Trays of food were set out before them. Baskets of fruit, meat pies, vegetables, fish, and pastries. Then she noticed the bowl of goat cheese.

Oh no.

“And thus, I proclaim,” the king continued, “a renewal of our alliances to—What is this? What is this?” the king bellowed.

He stormed from his seat at the head of the table, down to the small container of goat cheese.

“Who would insult me like this? WHO!?”

The king threw the cheese across the hall and glared at a small, pointy nosed man sitting at the other side of the table.

“Milton? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The man cowered, his floppy hat nearly falling off his head.

Meekes peeked from the entrance outside with a decanter of wine.

“It was me, sir,” Meekes said confidently. “I am afraid we were all out of ordinary cheese. I thought you might appreciate the irony.”

“Oh, well,” the king said. He gave a chuckle, just one, sharp noise. “Well, yes, well, I suppose that is rather funny. Meekes, clean up that cheese and give it to Milton.”

Milton’s lips quivered as he tried smiling his thanks for His Highness’s graciousness and mercy and goodness and forgiveness. The king returned to his seat by his wife.

“Well done, my love,” Priscilla said with a smile. “Any goat-supporters are surely trembling at your very presence.”

The king returned the arrogant smirk.

The feast began, and Meekes poured each noble a serving of wine. The chatter began again, the nobles ultimately giving in to their own vanity and forgetting any cause for concern from the king’s outburst. They all, each and every one of them, loved nothing more than the sound of their own voice. Perhaps an annoying quirk, but it made for riveting dinner conversation.

There was another burly man, the Viscount of Discount, sitting near the corner of the far end of the table. He laughed, and laughed, but as soon as his neighbor turned her gaze away, he put something in the lady’s drink. A small dash of powder, barely noticeable.

“My love, did you see that?” Priscilla asked in a whisper.

“What?”

“The Viscount of Discount, I believe he just poisoned Lady Marquette!”

The king grunted. “Unbelievable. Of all those I would accuse I would have suspected Discount last.”

“Perhaps that is what makes him a likely culprit,” Priscilla said with a caustic hatred.

“You’re very wise, my dear wife. Poor Marquette.”

“Poor Marquette? What do you mean? Are we to let her die?”

“We must see what this plot involves.”

“Oh, the poor dear…”

But as Marquette went to sip her wine, look! The Viscount of Discount averted his gaze, and then Lady Marquette put her wine back on the table. Indeed, she swapped her glass with her own neighbor, Monsieur Mouse. Oh, what a tragedy this was.

Monsieur Mouse was unaware of the treacherous act as he was blathering away to his wife. He picked up the glass and took a big swig, but nothing happened immediately.

Then Monsieur Mouse did the unthinkable. He took out a small pouch, and dropped in more powder! Oh, the poisonous, terrible, no-good sight! He swapped the glass with his very own wife as she grew distracted by another lady’s spectacular feather hat.

She sipped, as well, and now Priscilla watched in horror as each noble in succession poisoned themselves, the glass surely only growing more toxic.

The king let out a devious laugh, as all his enemies were sure to drop dead before him at any moment.

One noble drank, and poisoned the wine, and passed it along. Would anyone know what happened? How could this be?

The glass found its way toward the royal pair, and the king laughed like a trumpet.

“Oh, you foolish men! You foolish women!” He reached out and grabbed the glass before the man in his neighboring seat could drink from the poisonous wine. “How many of you have all perished tonight, for your simple avarice? All you who thought you could support those desperate goats… Know now that you will pay retribution!”

There was a murmur of panic among the nobles, but none more notable than Lady Marquette. “I feel faint. Oh, dear!” And she fell, toppled right outside of her chair as if someone pushed her.

Then Monsieur Mouse, who fell face first onto the table and into a cup of gravy. The splash sprayed his velvet coat.

Priscilla covered her eyes. “Oh, Death! Pass from my house, be gone, Death!”

By the end of the minute, all but the royalty and the Viscount of Discount were collapsed, either on the floor or with their face stuck in some assortment of pies or potatoes.

“Alas,” the king said, “these goats never would have been stopped without such vile betrayal.”

Then Meekes entered from the other room. “Your Highness, if I may.”

“Of course,” the king said, waving him over. “What is the matter?”

Meekes stepped over a few fallen forms, being sure not to step on any of the expensive capes or dresses that blocked his path.

“I must admit, I was involved in this conspiracy.”

“Meekes!”

“Now, Your Highness, let me explain. Each of these fallen members came to me in the kitchen, each asking me for help to poison you.”

“And you joined them? Have you poisoned me, dear Meekes?” The king grabbed his throat as if he could feel the poison rising in his stomach.

“No, Your Highness, let me explain. I gave them all a sleep powder, and told them it was poison. All these here now fallen are merely taking a nap. The more powder they added to their drinks, that will merely mean the longer they will sleep. The Viscount of Discount was true to you throughout this night, tricking the nobles into their horrible game.”

“Oh, my!” Priscilla said. “Who could have thought such terrible traitors could be so stupid?”

“No, no!” the king cried. “This is it! This is the perfect chance for revenge. My dear Meekes, do you know if this sleeping powder will work on the goats?”

“I have every reason to believe so, sir.”

“Then gather these nobles and send them to their homes. But first, put those wild goats to sleep… and put one in each and every noble’s house! Ha! How will they feel when the goats trample their carpets and relieve themselves inside the nobles’ very homes? That will surely prove to them how wrong they were to side against me!”

Photo by Engjell Gjepali on Unsplash