The King Is Dead, Long Live The Squire – A Regal Romp (Part The Third)

Part The Third – To Kill The King


I must have been getting softer. A note of caution should have sounded when the initial simple plan turned out to be something rather different to the version I had been initially sold. The phrase "gently assassinated" as used by brother dearest may well have been what the rum old cove had in mind but the more important words "by yours truly, the gullible Squire" were sadly lacking.

Naturally, when I initially found out that murderous despatch by my squirely hand was to be my method of ascension to the Welshy throne, I balked and, as many of you know, I'm not one of nature's balkers. I'm also not one prone to murderous intent, no matter the provocation – I'm predominantly a lover, not a pugilist. However, it's truly remarkable the difference that the promise of palatial riches, free-flowing firewater and fine fulsome fillies, coupled with a few hours being given a ruddy good thrashing by a pair of the man mountains, all convinced me to go along with the regicidal machinations.

I arrived in deepest, darkest Wales under cover of night (don't ask me whereabouts – it had sheep and a valley, much like most of the wretched place). Armed only with the accoutrements bestowed upon me by The Younger's carefully trained team of partially shaved besuited beasts, I stealthily stole my way towards the royal palace. At this point, my spirits begin to sink to further depths (if it is indeed possible for one's spirits to sink lower when one has been bullied into regicide). The "royal palace" appeared to be a rather glorified country manor with word "Brenhindy" emblazoned across it. Still, needs must and all that. I crept on towards the palace, planted my secret murder weapon and retreated to lodgings in the nearest town.

The next morning, I was awakened by a fearful hullabullo. It appeared that the King had been secretly planning to sell Wales back to the English and have all the inhabitants sold off for spare parts. Somehow, this information had made it's way to the King's closest advisers at some point secretly during the night. According to ancient tradition, he had been summarily executed at dawn by being forcibly stuffed full of leeks and miniature replicas of dragons. I felt some mild pangs of remorse for the poor fellow but they were son quelled by a stout breakfast.

Now was the time for me to make to my move. After first dazzling the locals with a few bright and shiny gewgaws and doodads, I pointed for them all to look in the other direction, dashed a pre-prepared crown upon my head and informed them all that I was the new king. After some initial confusion – one man insisted I was English until I pointed out that I was King of Wales so was hardly likely to be English, now, was I – they accepted me and carried me shoulder high to the… well, let's call it a palace.

This is the point where my false sense of security was restored. There was bowing and scraping, peeling and feeding, tweaking and frolicking – truly everything I had been lead to believe a kingly life was all about. I was beginning to think that, for once, The Younger had steered me right, finally rewarding me with the life of devilishly debauched decadence I had always craved and, in your narrator's humble opinion, deserved. Of course, when the rough and ready revolutionaries rudely retarded my regal repose and draped a burlap sack over my head whilst manhandling me out of the door, I realised that I had been, as they say in the vernacular, "done up like a kipper"…


To Be Prolonged