In between sobs, King GarGar would blow his nose and take a sip of wine. Before his goblet could get empty, Sir Beerbottom, the Master of the Cup, would refill the King’s vessel with more intoxicant. The last time anybody in the King’s personal service saw him in such a state was when the battleship Marie Rose sank. Sir Beerbottom cleared his throat loudly after refreshing the King’s drink. Then he sighed heavily like an actor on a stage.
“You’ve obviously got something to say, my lord, so you might as well say it,” sobbed the king to his friend.
“Getting drunk is not going to solve any of your problems. In fact, it will probably make everything worse.”
“It’s not that she met with the Cardinal/Archbishop, a notorious rake, without telling me first, but to lie about it afterwards. That’s what hurts. Why would she lie, if she didn’t have something to hide?”
“Perhaps she and the Cardinal/Archbishop are working together on a project that touches on Your Majesty’s private life, rather than some ignoble acts on either of their parts. You don’t wear a suspicious mind very well. Isn’t better to just trust?”
Gargar paused in mid-sip. “Damn it! You’re right. I should trust Pirouette more than this!” Flinging his handkerchief to the ground, King GarGar rose from his table and tried to shake the fuzziness from his head. “I’m an idiot sometimes,” he slurred.