The Tragic Spilling of Tea

If you were jumping to conclusions, you would have thought that she had stepped out on her husband and was having an affair with the king, but Kathryn was much more valuable to the king than a good lay. In a time when it would have been considered folly to ask a woman for their good counsel, King Edward had the good sense to do it. Let us not pretend that the two of them were not without a secret because they did indeed have one.

Now you may be wondering, who spilled the tea? How did the dear Lord Markum come to suspect that his wife was having 'tea' with the king? As you know, it is not unusual for the pot to call the kettle black, so naturally, he heard it from his mistress, who heard it from her sister, who was friendly with the lady in waiting for the queen. Of course, the mistress was all too happy to use this tidbit of gossip to drive a wedge between her lover and his wife, but what she did not know was the tragedy of what she was about to set in motion.

When Lord Markum heard the news that the king had bedded his wife, he became violently enraged. He wanted to take the palace by storm, interrupt their adulterous lewd acts, and spear the both of them repeatedly on the sharpened blade of his drawn sword. However, it would be ill-advised to handle this in the way one would if it was merely some classless villager who dared dangle his codpiece where it did not belong. For if he did, he would indeed be convicted of treason, hung, strung, and quartered for all of the townspeople to see.

Fallen from grace, stripped of all but his title, Lord Markum now had new reasons to resent the king, which extended far beyond the scandal of him bedding his wife. The hypocrite king, in his righteous fury, had exiled Markum for offending the church with his own illicit affair, all the while carrying on his clandestine liaison with Kathryn. The irony was as bitter as the hemlock tea that would soon seal Markum's fate.

Once a man of influence and wealth, Markum now languished in a dank, decrepit cottage, a far cry from the opulent halls he once roamed. The dirt floor beneath his cracking leather boots seemed to mock him, each step a reminder of his disgrace. The cottage, with its rotting walls and leaky roof, was a stark contrast to the grandeur of his former life. 

He sat at their old, weathered table, his boots digging into the damp dirt floor beneath him, and waited. He waited until the last hopeful glimpse of the sun fell, and then the pale moonlight cast shadows outside the window of his squalid exile. No candle was lit, nor fire was made, for his body was heated and consumed with scorching rage. King Edward's duplicity festered in Markum's mind, fueling his anger as he brooded in the dim light of his miserable refuge.

Would he strike her? No. The king shall not like his concubine marked by another man. The idea of this only served to madden him further; why should he worry about how his actions would impact the man who dishonored his holy covenant? Would he humiliate her? Shave the long blonde locks that made him fall in love with her in the first place? Strip her bare, cast her into the street before her kinsman? It was pointless. All roads lead to him being tortured and maimed. Had he not suffered enough at the mere thought of the king peeping beneath his bride's petticoat? His beady little eyes lusting after her flesh, soaking up the delicious cream of her thick, meaty thighs. He wondered what was wrong with this world that a king, with all his gold and riches, would want the one thing he possessed.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to yell, and for the world to hear "MINE," just as an unruly child who did not want to share his beloved toy. Again, it was pointless. Own land if you wish to, but that doesn't prevent the king from stripping it away. Be loyal to the king, but remember his loyalty does not lie with you. Take a God-fearing woman and make her your wife, but don't be so sure that she keeps her legs closed off from others. He was wrecked. His life, his purpose, all gone. He had lived to serve the king, but his wife was serving him better. 

He stood abruptly, his chair crashing against the wall behind him. "Let them have each other, but I will not stand by and watch this disgrace against God's union," he seethed. Then, he built a fire and placed his very black kettle on top of the embers. By the flicker of the flame, he took in the filthy aroma that reminded him of the mice-infested dockyards where he had spent his youth as he thumbed the leafy substance into his cup and bathed it in scalding water. Once content with his decision, he sat and enjoyed his first, last, and only cup of hemlock tea. He reveled in the bitterness of the taste, the way it matched his mood just fine. He basked in the irony of how something so delicate in appearance could be so toxic and deadly. 

His fingers began to tremble, his legs began to quake, and he felt a burning in his belly, all of this rivaling the agony of betrayal that had been inflicted upon him. When his heart began racing, each breath slowing, he knew the end was near. Again, he was wrecked. His only comfort was to bask in the glory that soon, she would be wrecked, too. 

When Kathryn returned home, her once dearest love was fading fast. She clenched her chest and dropped to his side when she saw what had been done. "No, no, no," she shouted, shaking him awake. He roused just enough to make his accusations. "Is the king a better lover than I?" His question startled her. Her jaw dropped. "I do not lie with the king, for I am his bastard sister and, faithfully, your wife." Regrettably, it was too late to undo what had been done all because of a little cup of tea.