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  What a brilliant first command he’d finally come up with.

  ‘I command,’ he’d commanded, ‘that I spend most of my time in bed.’

  Nobody argued.

  Maybe, Ned thought to himself, I’m going to be quite a reasonably good king after all.

  It was a magnificent bed, and easily big enough to hold all the things he might want to ask for.

  So far there were just bananas. The first one had been so delicious, he’d asked for more. As the courtiers brought them in, the Lord Chamberlain explained that the bravest ships’ captains in the land spent years on dangerous oceans to bring the bananas back from distant shores. By ancient royal command they sailed home the cold way, via the North Pole, so the bananas didn’t get too ripe.

  Ned was impressed.

  He made a note to make sure his commands were that good.

  The Lord Chamberlain also explained that a king shouldn’t have to peel his own bananas, so they’d got him a trained chimp. Well, not a chimp exactly, but they’d found a very nimble-fingered monk with a protruding lower jaw.

  Ned sighed contentedly. This was a wonderful experience, people being kind and considerate to him. The other people in his life had always been too busy for that, or too dead, and he was enjoying the feeling.

  ‘Another banana please,’ said Ned to the monk.

  The monk got peeling.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the Lord Chamberlain, who was standing in the corner of the royal bedroom keeping an eye on things. ‘You don’t have to say please. You’re the king.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ned.

  ‘Or sorry,’ said the Lord Chamberlain.

  Ned covered his embarrassment by eating the banana.

  He still had a bit to learn about being a king.

  ‘I want to make a Royal Proclamation,’ said Ned to the Lord Chamberlain.

  The Lord Chamberlain raised an eyebrow.

  Ned guessed why.

  He’d been king for three days now and they’d both lost count of the bananas he’d eaten, and other fruit of all kinds, and vegetables and nuts except for acorns, and interesting colourful pork dishes from faraway lands.

  But this was his first proclamation.

  ‘I want to proclaim,’ said Ned, ‘that everybody in my kingdom be happy.’

  Ned had been thinking about this all morning. He’d been thinking about how much power he had, which when he really thought about it was a humungous amount. He’d been thinking about how much good he could do with that power.

  And suddenly it hit him.

  He wanted everybody in his whole kingdom to be extremely happy.

  ‘If I may advise Your Majesty,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘A proclamation is a statement of how things are. If Your Highness wishes to proclaim universal happiness, what is required first are some means to make people happy. I suggest commands and laws, with the death penalty for people who don’t obey them.’

  Ned sighed.

  With the Lord Chamberlain it was always the death penalty.

  Ned could still hear scrubbing from the other side of the bed where the nimble-fingered monk was trying to get bloodstains out of the carpet after the Lord Chamberlain had beheaded a courtier who’d brought Ned a bruised apricot.

  ‘Alright,’ said Ned. ‘Pass a law to make everyone happy.’

  It was the Lord Chamberlain’s turn to sigh.

  ‘If I may advise Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘People may need a little more help than that.’

  Good grief, thought Ned. Can’t anyone think for themselves? Do I have to do everything around here?

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Law number one. Everybody must have enough to eat, including three types of fruit per week, two types of vegetable and at least one interesting colourful pork dish from a faraway land. Law number two . . .’

  The Lord Chamberlain clapped his hands.

  Several nervous courtiers came in with parchment, ink and quill pens.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Ned made laws, the courtiers wrote them down, and the Lord Chamberlain frowned.

  It was very hard work.

  Ned needed a lot of strawberries and truffled pork ribs to keep his strength up.

  The gentle chink of fine porcelain coaxed Ned out of his cosy slumber.

  He opened his eyes.

  At first he couldn’t see where the sound was coming from. The bed was piled so high with buns that Ned took a few moments to spot the figure on the other side of the room holding a tray.

  Was it another annoying courtier with yet another chamber pot?

  No, it was a girl, a few years older than him.

  He noticed how different she looked from the other females he’d seen in his weeks at the castle. She was wearing a simple white smock and apron, and her fair hair was tied back in a ponytail. She didn’t have any of the ringlets or powder or lice that the other women wore in their hair.

  ‘I’m Genevieve, Your Majesty,’ she said, her eyes cast modestly downwards. ‘I’ll be serving you from now on.’

  About time, thought Ned grumpily.

  He’d issued the command to the Lord Chamberlain ages ago, before having his nap.

  ‘No more courtiers,’ he’d said. ‘I’m sick of them flocking in here, bowing and scraping and leaving furrows in the carpet with their foreheads when they back out of the room.’

  The Lord Chamberlain had seemed to agree. Possibly, Ned thought, because he’d had to behead several courtiers only that week for bringing Ned buns with thumb prints on them.

  ‘From now on,’ Ned had commanded the Lord Chamberlain, ‘I only want to be served by one person.’

  And here she was.

  ‘What have you got for me?’ said Ned, greedily eyeing the plates on Genevieve’s tray.

  ‘Lime and rose marmalade buns,’ said Genevieve. ‘Candied butterfly buns. Hazelnut and gold-leaf custard buns. And a new savoury bun that contains the stewed gizzards of some rare but delicious furry woodland creatures.’

  ‘Yum,’ said Ned. ‘Give them here.’

  With a regal wave of his hand he swept off the bed several dozen of the other types of buns he was already bored with. He grabbed the plate from Genevieve and started gobbling the new ones.

  For a fleeting moment Ned remembered the taste of his very first bun. A simple warm yeasty ball of light-as-air dough with a bit of vanilla icing on top.

  It had only been a few days ago that he’d proclaimed he was sick of fruit and meat, and a nervous courtier had appeared with his first bun on a tray, but it seemed like a lifetime.

  Ned pushed another bun into his mouth and turned to Genevieve.

  ‘You look like a reasonably intelligent person,’ he said, spraying her with bits of hazelnut and gold leaf. ‘What’s the word from my kingdom? Are people happy yet?’

  Genevieve glanced at the Lord Chamberlain, whose face stayed blank.

  ‘Well, Your Majesty,’ said Genevieve, ‘it’s early days yet. The Bedtime Story Law seems to be working quite well. And the Saying Please And Thank You Law seems to be very popular, except with Vikings and Goths. But the law requiring everyone to tell fifteen jokes a day is causing some difficulties. The murder rate is up alarmingly and people are saying they’d rather get the plague than hear another knock-knock joke.’

  Ned scowled.

  ‘Ungrateful scum,’ he muttered. ‘They’re given the chance to be happy and they don’t even take it. I’m working my fingers to the bun, I mean bone, for that selfish rabble. Maybe we should find a few of the really unhappy ones and make an example of them.’

  Ned dragged a custardy finger across his own neck.

  Genevieve glanced at the Lord Chamberlain again.

  ‘It’s an option,’ said the Lord Chamberlain.

  Ned opened his mouth to explain that he hadn’t meant chop their heads off, he’d just meant make them uncomfortably sticky with custard. But he closed it again.

  Sometimes a king had to be ruthless.

  ‘Here,’ said G
enevieve. ‘Let me clear away some of these stale buns.’

  She made a small bag of her apron and started dropping buns into it one by one.

  ‘Get rid of them all,’ growled Ned, sweeping the remaining few hundred onto the floor. ‘And tell those lazy curs in the kitchen that if they don’t prepare fifty new types of bun by the morning, all delicious, I’ll pass a Cooks Dangling Off The Battlements While Crows Peck Off Their Tummy Fat Law.’

  Genevieve paused and furrowed her brow.

  Then she leaned closer to Ned than any non-royal subject was meant to lean, including the Lord Chamberlain.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t think being king is going to your head a bit, do you?’

  She went back to picking up buns.

  Ned stared at her.

  He couldn’t believe what she’d just said.

  It was treason.

  Didn’t she realise that any second now the Lord Chamberlain would have his sword out and her head off?

  Except that wasn’t happening. The Lord Chamberlain was calmly watching as she calmly picked up buns.

  Maybe the Lord Chamberlain didn’t hear her, thought Ned. Or maybe I didn’t hear her correctly. Maybe she said something else. Or maybe she didn’t say anything at all. Maybe I only thought she did.

  But deep down Ned knew that she’d said it and he’d heard it.

  And that there was one thing even a king couldn’t banish.

  The truth.

  Ned closed his eyes and sank back onto his pillows. Several of which, he could feel, had buns stuffed inside them.

  A tiny nagging thought started to form in the back of his mind, as far away as a jagged piece of crystalized ginger on top of a bun three pillows down, but just as impossible to ignore.

  Maybe, he thought miserably, she’s right.

  Ned stared at the ceiling of the royal bedroom.

  In the gloom of the early evening, he could just make out the unicorns and dragons on the royal crest, which was inlaid into the ceiling and was carved from rare timbers and mother-of-pearl and slices of the thigh bones of old enemies of the realm.

  To Ned they looked like pigs dancing happily.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d left behind at home and how much he missed it.

  Genevieve is right, he thought miserably.

  Being king had gone to his head and he’d turned into a monster.

  ‘Are you there, Lord Chamberlain?’ said Ned.

  There was no reply.

  Ned couldn’t see if the Lord Chamberlain was in his corner, or if he’d popped out to behead someone. The Lord Chamberlain was one of those people who could sleep standing up, Ned had seen it, but he always snored a bit and ground his teeth, and at the moment Ned couldn’t hear either of those sounds.

  Ned got out of bed.

  His legs felt wobbly. Probably because he hadn’t used them for several weeks, apart from kicking a few buns off the bed.

  He headed for the door.

  Wobbly or not, he had to do this. Apologise for his behaviour, starting with saying sorry to Genevieve, then the courtiers, then maybe even the Lord Chamberlain.

  The corridor was very long.

  Ned spotted a figure sitting on a bench against the wall in the distance. Some of the candles had blown out, and in the gloom Ned couldn’t make out who it was.

  As he got closer, he started to feel nervous.

  What if it was one of the cooks, brooding about having to stay up all night inventing new buns. Pushed to the brink by exhaustion and custard fatigue. Desperate to use his knife on something more deserving than the internal organs of small furry forest creatures.

  A power-crazed king, for example.

  Ned shuddered.

  The figure turned towards Ned and stood up.

  Ned froze. He could see the silhouette of what the figure was holding. It looked like a huge knife. Ned turned to run. Then remembered he couldn’t. He was wearing the royal nightgown, which was so big on him it flopped over his feet in folds.

  ‘Ned?’

  The figure had spoken. It spoke again, in a familiar voice.

  ‘That nightgown’s wa’ too warm, lad. Ye’ll be dyin’ of infant mortality in that thing.’

  ‘Uncle Vern,’ shouted Ned, running towards him.

  He tripped and fell into Uncle Vern’s arms. They’d never actually hugged before, and it was a bit awkward at first, specially as Uncle Vern was also holding his pig-lard-shaping stick which he’d brought with him for self-defence. But they settled into it after a while and both enjoyed it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Ned.

  ‘I came to see you, bitty lad,’ said Uncle Vern. ‘Beseech ye to stop sendin’ the trees.’

  Ned stared at him, puzzled. Then remembered. Way back, in his first week as king, he’d issued a command that damp trees should be delivered to Uncle Vern in large numbers. The royal army had departed the same day to carry out the order.

  ‘It were a nice thought, Your Highness,’ said Uncle Vern nervously, and for a moment Ned thought he was going to prostrate himself on the floor. ‘But them army lads planted ’em, and the forest got too big like. I was out there scrapin’ last week and it took me two days to find my way home.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ned in a small voice. ‘Being king went to my head.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Uncle Vern, putting a sympathetic hand on Ned’s shoulder. ‘That can happen.’

  ‘How did you get in here?’ said Ned.

  ‘Bribed the guards wi’ some pork chops,’ said Uncle Vern. ‘Then some Lord Chamberlain was about to remove my bonce, but the queen turned up and saved me.’

  Ned stared at Uncle Vern.

  ‘The queen?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Uncle Vern. ‘A slip of a girl, but nice.’

  Ned felt faint.

  ‘She’s in there,’ said Uncle Vern, pointing to a huge pair of doors. ‘Welcoming guests at a royal ball or summat. But after that she said she’d take me to see you.’

  Ned tried to speak, but all he could do was stand with his mouth open.

  ‘Ye alright, lad?’ said Uncle Vern. ‘Ye be lookin’ a bit like a brain-addled piglet.’

  Things didn’t improve for Ned when the doors of the royal ballroom swung open and light and noise and merriment spilled out, followed closely by a young woman in a dazzling ballgown and a mass of glittering diamonds and a crown.

  Ned blinked.

  It was Genevieve.

  ‘It’s alright, Your Highness,’ said Uncle Vern to Genevieve. ‘Ye don’t have to trouble yerself. I’ve found him.’

  Ned’s mouth stayed open.

  ‘Ned,’ said Uncle Vern, ‘this is Her Royal Highness Queen Genevieve as I was telling ye about.’

  Ned tried to say something, but all that came out was a squeak.

  ‘Poor Ned,’ said Queen Genevieve, ‘I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I’ve used you selfishly for my own purposes.’

  Ned didn’t understand what she meant, but he suddenly found he could speak, so he did.

  ‘That’s alright, I don’t mind,’ squeaked Ned. ‘Your Highness.’

  He wasn’t sure if it was really alright, but what else could you say to a queen?

  ‘I should explain,’ said Queen Genevieve. ‘As you know, my father the king died suddenly and I was crowned much earlier than I’d been expecting. So I decided to do what my grandfather did when he was crowned very young. Allow a young commoner to be king for a while and witness what happens to us all if we have too much power and aren’t careful with it and start behaving like a power-mad froth-brain.’

  Ned digested this, and the more he did, the more foolish he felt.

  ‘I’m sorry to have deceived you, Ned,’ said Queen Genevieve. ‘But you have done me a great service. Throughout my reign, if ever I feel power going to my head, I’ll think of you.’

  ‘That be nice, ent it, Ned?’ said Uncle Vern.

  Ned didn’t think it was nice at al
l. He wanted to crawl under a large stone for ever.

  ‘I can see you have mixed feelings about this, Ned,’ said Queen Genevieve. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t have mixed feelings, Your Highness,’ said Ned. ‘I have very clear feelings. I’m a fool.’

  ‘No, Ned,’ said Queen Genevieve, ‘you’re not a fool. You’re a Fool, and that’s a very different thing.’

  Ned didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  ‘A Fool,’ said Queen Genevieve, ‘is a very important person in a royal household. He’s the person who, if the monarch is in danger of turning into a power-crazed dunce, says or does something to bring that monarch to their senses. Just like you’ve done for me these past few weeks.’

  ‘I’ll be a pig’s nostril,’ said Uncle Vern.

  Even though Ned was still stunned, he could see the sense in what the queen was saying.

  ‘Ned,’ said Queen Genevieve, ‘I’m going to reign for a long time if I can stop peasants sneezing on me. The longer I have absolute power, the greater the risk I’ll turn into an addled-headed twit. So I very much need a Fool, and I’d like it to be you. It’s a very well-paid job. I do hope you’ll accept.’

  Ned did accept.

  People had been calling him a fool for so long that it was an easy decision to make. Except, as he quickly discovered, the Queen was right. This was very different.

  It was hard work, but very satisfying.

  The Queen got a bit tetchy with him at times, but that’s when he knew he was doing his job well. Other times he could see in her eyes how much she valued him.

  There were times when it almost felt like he was running the country. That’s when he needed somebody to take him down a peg or two, and luckily he had someone.

  Uncle Vern, the new Lord Chamberlain.

  ‘I’ope them pigs is alright,’ Uncle Vern would sometimes say.

  ‘Don’t fret, Lord Chamberlain,’ Queen Genevieve would say. ‘The old Lord Chamberlain was born to farm pigs. When slaughter time comes, he’ll have their heads off and they won’t feel a thing.’

  Sometimes Ned did feel a little sorry for the old Lord Chamberlain, having to scrape damp trees with such a fine sword. But at least he had plenty of trees to scrape.