"Sing a song of sixpence pockets full of rye," the children chanted.
The queen scowled.
"What is rye mother?" William, her oldest child, asked.
"A whiskey I should think," the queen said.
"Who could fill his pockets with it?" William looked puzzled.
"Must you ask foolish questions?"
"It must be magic," Evan, the youngest child, said.
"Don't be such a fool," the mother said.
Afterwards the king came downstairs. He was a stooping man with yellow hair and a limp.
"Read us a story, father," the youngest child cried.
The king put the three children onto his lap and read. Eventually Evan grew bored and asked, "What is it exactly that a king does, Father?"
The king said, "The king is warrior feared by all. He has the healing gift and can cure scrofula."
"Can we get scrofula?" William asked.
"Only if you forget to clean behind your ears."
"But what else does he do?" the middle child asked.
"The king signs treaties, presides over ministers, acts as Christ's representative on earth, beheads the recalcitrant, and generally cuts a fine figure of a man."
"Will we be kings one day, Father?" William asked.
"Most certainly, but only after your mother dies."
"Must we all die, Father?"
"Only for a short time, my son, for we shall rise and live again."
"Father, what does it mean to sing a song of sixpence?"
"Why it's exactly twice as much as singing a song of thruppence."
The children laughed, and the king took their leave with kisses, and no one pointed out the tear in his blue-silk stocking.
Soon the queen returned from where she had been closeted with the Earl of Snyde-Withington. The Earl had black hair, squat legs, bulging lips, and a brutish neck.
"Who was that man you were with?" William asked.
"Why must you concern yourselves with trivialities?" the queen replied.
"Does that man have the magical touch, Mother?" the middle child asked.
"Must you ask nonsense?"
"Mother, what does a king really do?" Evan said.
"Fumbles about, has oodles of money, and pretends to be of significance," the queen said.
"Do we have oodles of money, Mother?"
"Not in the least. Now get you to bed. The chamberlain will tuck you to sleep."
When the children were gone, the queen had audience with the king.
"I see you had a visitor today." The king slumped before the fire.
"No, none at all."
"But I saw the Earl of Snyde-Withington depart."
"Oh him. A matter of protocol."
"I see."
The queen caressed the king's neck. "You're not foolishly jealous again?"
"I strive not to be."
"Silly king." She fondled his neck with the black ointment she had secretly removed from her purse.
"Sometimes I am not sure."
"Ah foolish husband," she replied. "Tomorrow is your birthday, and I have had the cooks prepare a treat."
"Pie?" the king said hopefully.
"Yes, pie."
The next afternoon the children and the guests gathered in the great hall for the birthday-party. The king requested a song.
The children sang, "Four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie. When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?"
"Blackbird pie? How silly." The king frowned, but broke into a broad smile as the queen's gigantic pie was wheeled into the great hall.
"How exceptional!" The king said, rising and cutting a smooth hole into the crust of the pie.
"Oh! Oh!" the children cried as great, black vultures with bald red heads flashed from the pie and fell voraciously on the king's neck.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Snyde-Withington made feeble efforts with his sword to drive off the birds, but to no avail.
Through it all, the queen breathed shallowly behind a white glove held to her mouth, while William turned to his siblings and said, "Do not weep, brothers. Remember father said we only die for a short, short time."
--End--
