More nonsense. Yay. I love nonsense. Also, have to add. I love the show's Robert. I want to adopt, shrink him, put him in my pocket and carry him around everywhere I go, so we can say mean things about people together. Also, I've been wondering: does anyone know Willow's last name?

As always, thank you for reading! I hope you'll stick around.

ACT I.

Ahasuerus

Part II.

Solomon & Cain

There were reporters everywhere and she was nowhere and for fuck's sake, he was going to drown in camera flashes and feminine attention. He had to admit, they were gorgeous, so well played, Poppy, but there were bloody forty-eight of them – one for every ceremonial county - and where the hell was his fucking eunuch to help him control the herd?

He wondered if hate was a strong enough word to describe the emotion he felt for Poppy right now.

Jasper stood a couple of feet away, bloody grateful – if the look on his twitterpated face was anything to go by – that for once, during their public appearances, he and the Princess weren't the center of attention. When he noticed Robert's frenzied attempts at making eye contact, he winked, kissing Eleanor gently on the lips while not removing his gaze from Robert.

A clear message, then.

No help here.

Bloody prick.

Jasper, in the last weeks, was steadily proving to be a shit excuse of a bodyguard. Never mind the bloke was off duty. They'd have words, later.

Serious words.

Seriously violent words.

'Ladies,' Robert smiled charmingly, pushing his discontentment with Jasper aside for the moment, but he had been smiling all day and his jaw was starting to hurt.

'One at a time please. I would love to give you all attention, but I can't do that if I can't' – bloody hell – 'hear you.'

They giggled in unison, but they did seem to get the message, as they stopped screeching all at once and the plucking and prodding ceased altogether.

Thank God.

He fished his phone from his jacket pocket – which turned out to be quite the hassle as the two fillies – it was so hard to refer to them as Ladies, when they behaved like proper bits – attached to his arms were unwilling to let go for fear of one of the other five thousand or so popsies taking their place, but eventually he managed – and checked to see if he had any messages from his own personal scapegrace. Of course there were none.

He considered calling her, but that would appear desperate and would only give her more ammunition to use against him. He shot her a quick text – where are you, fiend – and then wholly focused his attention back on the girls.

Ladies.

Females.

Virgins – though that was doubtful.

Fucking serpents.

In all honesty, he was done. Bloody done. This was only the first day of the Ascot, but already he was exhausted beyond comparison. He'd thought to go about his business like all the years before. Watching the races, placing some bets, more often than not cashing in on those bets because he was simply bloody brilliant and just mingling in general. In theory he could still do so, but reality had proven this was blessedly hard to do with forty bloody eight girls trailing after your behind. All of whom were one hundred percent uninterested in horses and racing, but who were all two hundred percent completely invested in him.

And my crown.

He wasn't a complete bleeding idiot.

Though most of the day he had felt like one.

Regret. Should've never ever given into Poppy and the diabolical madness her brain managed to conjure up.

He'd had no quality time whatsoever with his mates – who were both jealous of him and laughing at his predicament – and the only time he'd had somewhat of a moment to himself was when he'd gone to the loo. He'd taken a suspiciously long time, sitting on the sink with his phone in his lap, watching cat-videos on Facebook, and upon his return he'd had to break up a catfight between Cumbria and Tyne and Wear – he could not for the love of God remember their names and had taken to calling them by their respective counties – over the ownership of half a smoked fag he'd disposed of before going to the toilet. He hadn't been certain whether to be appalled or flattered. He'd gone for a bizarre mix of both.

Both had kept a safe distance afterwards, though, and he figured he'd resolved the squabble quite well.

'Robert,' the girl on his left started. 'Shall we get something to eat?'

And just like that, they were back at it again.

Robert, I've got a really nice dessert for you.

I'll give you a hard, wooden spoon, Robbie.

Need me to rub your meat?

I'm in the mood for some Finger Marie – and he almost choked on his beer because he was positive that her name was Marie and was she really suggesting what he thou –

She winked at him salaciously.

Bloody hell, had they no propriety?

Calliope, you flaming blackguard, where the ruddy hell are you?

She was attractive, though, this Rutland Marie, and when he was younger he had immensely enjoyed Fingers Maries.

Extra sauce.

He grinned, resuming his trek towards the Royal Enclosure, determined on claiming a spot in the Grandstand and watching the final race of the day. His entourage followed dutifully. He felt only slightly guilty when he left most of them in the grand Enclosure Gardens, spread wide and deep, before choosing four to accompany him up to the fourth floor of the Grandstand. They had bothered him least all day and he reckoned he could handle their company a few moments longer.

Barely.

Also, the press would love it. They'd most likely label the four as his favorites and the ensuing speculation and gossip would keep the tabloids and social media occupied for at least forty eight hours, giving him a well-earned reprieve of all the madness and the hope – of a chimera – that perhaps tomorrow he could watch all the races with a pint in his hand and the jovial company of his mates.

The Grandstand offered a great view of the racing track. Robert had missed the opening races already – and he just knew Queen Anne – rest her soul – would make him suffer for it, one way or the other – and he was damned if he was also missing the Saint James's Palace Stakes. The last race of the day.

No way, José. Not happening.

His mother and siblings were already there. He expressly ignored both Eleanor and her man candy, passing them by in favor of ruffling Liam's hair and kissing his mother on the forehead. He almost forgot about Willow, but circled back round to where she was seated next to Eleanor and pinched her cheek. His back was turned to his sister and he used the moment to glare at Jasper, mouthing exaggeratedly, 'I am going to kill you.'

You better read my lips, bastard. You're a dead man. Fuck words.

'Mother, Brother, good-sister and others.' Another scowl in Jasper's general direction. 'These lovely Ladies are Dorset, Kent, Surrey and Suffolk.'

They curtsied and he could hear Eleanor snort. Was of a mind to do so himself.

'He can't remember us by our names,' Surrey explain with a grin. 'So he calls us by our county.'

'How is that easier?' Willow scrunched up her nose in confusion and had anyone else asked such a ridiculous question, he would've cuffed them, but his brother's girlfriend was simply too damn charming and innocent – like a bloody kitten – so he found himself humoring her – like the perfect gentleman I am, lest no one ever forget.

He beckoned Surrey closer and pointed at her silk blouse.

'See. They wear their crests on their chest. Blessedly easy to remember, since I've been drilled in coats of arms and whatnot ever since –'

He saw movement behind Willow and his eyes widened.

'You profligate buffoon,' he thundered. 'Where have you been all bloody day?'

All heads turned to him. He saw shocked and somewhat nervy faces and he sneered menacingly.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

The only one – of course – not showing any sign of discomfort – who else? – was her.

Bloody Caliope etiam Poppy the stinker.

'Robert,' she enthused. 'You look absolutely dashing today.'

'Save it,' he snapped. 'Where have you been?'

Fucking miscreant.

'You were supposed to be my eunuch,' he complained. 'And instead you left me to fend for myself with these, these – '

'These lovely Ladies of which four are standing right behind you,' she smiled.

'Yes,' he gnarled. 'Exactly what I wanted to say. You're a bleeding mind reader, love.'

Eleanor snorted again. He made a mental note to remove her from his will.

Willow had drawn the girls in what seemed pleasant conversation, so Robert climbed over the chairs and grabbed Poppy by the arm.

'With me,' he growled. 'Now.'

And it seemed like, for fuck's sake, he was not going to watch the Saint James's Palace Stakes either. Bloody waste of a day.

He pulled her into the hallway, pushed her into a corner near the stairs.

'Forty-fucking-eight, Poppy?' he hissed. 'Seriously?'

She smirked and shrugged. Tried to slide away from him, but he drove the palm of his hand almost through the wall, halting her escape.

'Well.' She eyed both of his arms besides her head. 'You have me effectively trapped.'

'Forty-eight,' he repeated.

She threw up her hands and tried to create some space between them.

He practically snarled and pushed closer instead. 'They're all giggling bints with more feather than brains. Are you trying to have me commit a murder, Poppy?'

'Don't be so picky, Robbie.' She smirked. 'Quantity over quality. Just like Solomon in the Bible. What did you think? That you'd just be wandering around the tracks and then miraculously would find a wife?'

She snorted. 'You're not Cain. You need to work to keep up appearances.'

'But forty-eight,' he groaned. 'It's ridiculous. They're fighting, they're exhausting and they won't bloody leave me alone.'

'Everything comes with a price.'

'I never asked for you meddling in my love life,' he snapped, 'and the price I'm paying for it is way too high. I haven't even seen one bloody race all damn day.'

They were nose to nose, her aloofness only fueling his frustration.

Something flashed and he whipped his head around. Saw a photographer run down the stairs, practically giddy.

God-fucking-damnit.

'King assaulting GCHQ-liaison in a dark corner,' she grinned. 'That'll be a great headline tomorrow.'

He growled.

'Why are you so fucking infuriating?'

'Why do you have suck a massive stick up your arse?'

He ran a hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. He wanted a haircut but the public had voted they liked his curls longer and as King he was in service to his people. Haircut what? Bloody think again. King.

And that bint was fucking laughing at him.

'This might be funny to you, Poppy, but it's my life. I need to rule a Kingdom. I have national and foreign politics that need regulating. My PM wants nothing more than to abolish the monarchy. The people want a Royal marriage, my mother wants an heir and now thanks to you I need to all of the above the Biblical way?' He sighed.

'You show up with forty-eight fucking girls and they're driving me nuts. And then I remember I'm supposed to bloody marry one of them or at least indulge them and fuck, I can't deal with that, Poppy. I'm a King but I'm also a lad and I want to watch the horse races and drink a pint with my mates and just bloody fucking not this.'

He was dimly aware he might be having some sort of mental breakdown – and if he was honest to himself, it had been long in the making, ever since the Archbishop had placed that sodding crown on his head. Since it had become public knowledge his sister was dating, but not dating, the bodyguard. Since Kathryn. Since everything.

He only then noticed the hand on his wrist, fingers curled around his arm. She was soothingly rubbing his thumb, her eyes on his face.

No judgement there.

'I assure you, Robert,' she said solemnly. 'That I take this serious, without reservation.'

'The ultimate goal is pleasing the Church, your mother and the people. And if it's up to me, we'll achieve that goal without putting a ring on anyone's finger. Believe me, over my dead body that I will let you marry or indulge any of these girls.'

She pouted. 'Maybe Surrey, she seems really nice.'

'I've known you for over two years, Robert. And you're a good man. A good King. And I'd be a very bad GCHQ liaison if I didn't consider your wants and needs in this venture. We just don't let anyone else know that this is all a facade.'

'If you'd just kept your bloody mouth shut, there would not have been a venture nor the necessity of a facade.'

She grinned. 'If I'd kept my bloody mouth shut, I would not be making this paper right now.' She tapped him on the nose and he jerked back, because - what?! - had she really hit him with an American pop culture reference? 'Truly, your mother pays GCHQ liaisons extraordinarily well.'

He rolled her eyes at her. She was still rubbing circles on his wrist and he sighed. He rested his head against hers, if only for a moment.

'Fine,' he grumbled. 'I'll pretend to enjoy myself. And I'll pretend to trust you.'

He grabbed her by the chin, stared her dead in the eye.

'But I don't trust you. I think you're a malevolent spirit crawled out of the darkest depths of hell to make my life miserable. Just so we're clear on that.'

She was clearly intimidated by him.

Of course she wasn't. Accursed devil's spalpeen.

She released his right arm and ducked beneath the left. Sauntered back towards the heavy doors opening up to the fourth floor balconies of the Grandstand.

'I love you too, Robert,' she said mockingly.

He could hear loud cheering coming through the doors and the announcer, in a rare display of fervor, cried out, 'Saint James's Palace Stakes winner: Go for Gin!'

'Ah,' Poppy grinned. 'Your mother's horse won.' She wagged a finger at him, tutted disapprovingly. 'A shame you missed it.'

Father, please grant me patience to deal with this nefarious dryad.

He was going to kill her before the end of the Royal Ascot. He was certain of it.

'And please, Robert.' She smiled at him over her shoulder. 'Don't finger Marie.'