Yesterday was Christmas, and the king was in one of his moods. He lashed out and struck the archbishop on the head. The archbishop smiled to himself as he escaped through the corridor. He took it in stride, because it happens every day.
The king then took to the balcony to declare, for the fifth time this month, that he vowed to cut off the heads of all the court jesters; he claimed the jingling of the bells on their shoes were codes sent to the ambassador of Spain. He raved from his balcony for hours on end, as kings do when they go mad in old age.
Something happened in the Low Countries yesterday. A handful of peasants are weeping for Rachel and her children, for they are no more.
What happened must be truly unspeakable - the king's decree is all anyone is talking about today, though they've heard it so many times before.
They take Rachel and her children in stride, because it happens every day. But the king is fat, a jester himself in diamonds, as kings become when they go mad in old age. It's a sight to behold.
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