poins

When the old king died, his son John found in his desk a mountain of clippings—tabloids, magazines, newspapers, pictures—Hal, in baggy jeans and gold chains in a Covent Garden back alley; drunk and laughing, half-naked, leaning into the shoulder of a pretty, eyelinered boy in a Brixton nightclub; in a tent in front of St. Paul’s, screaming at a police officer…

 

Harry watches John watching him; the suit covers the crown tattooed large over his left shoulder (he imagines he can feel the ink prickle in his skin), and today’s Armani tie feels no more and no less like a noose than yesterday’s chains did.

 

A press agent clears his throat and says, “It’s time, Your Majesty”; Harry and John lock eyes for a brief, tense second before John steps back and gestures for Harry to step forward, one eyebrow raised sardonically.

 

King Henry V strides out into the blinding sunlight of the balcony of Buckingham Palace and looks out across the masses; he hears John quietly move to stand behind him; and as he opens his mouth to make his first pronouncement as king he’s speaking half to him—

 

“This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, sits not so easily on me as you might think.”