The king, the queen, and the lovers who f**d England**

Prologue

Sunday 24th November, 1326 The crowd moved like a pack of feral animals. Screaming, spitting, shitting, chomping at the bit for a pound of Despenser flesh. It was a sickening and undignified sight to behold, but this outward display of contempt simply held a mirror up to Isabella’s innermost desires.

Though she could hardly stand the stench and mayhem of it all, a secret part of her longed to join the ruffians. To bare her teeth. But she was a queen, a daughter of France and England. And queens must always uphold the goodliness of women and the grandeur of the crown — in public and in private.

Besides, it was Sunday, a holy day…

And yet, the air felt devilish and dirty. Isabella was intoxicated by it all. It was a feast for her eyes, her senses, her soul.

She looked down at the unyielding crowd beneath her. Watched as they swayed together, fed off each other, sang in unison. That was where she wanted to be.

Yeah, fuck being the queen. And fuck Sunday while we’re at it. The Pope was too indebted to the royal houses of Europe to complain.

Isabella launched herself from her seat, pushing her wine into the hand of her lover, and roared as Hugh Despenser the Younger’s cock was hacked off with a blunt knife and thrown into the fire before him. He watched in horror as the executioners barbequed his favourite appendage and danced around the pot like maniacal witches.

‘Sir,’ Isabella proclaimed, ‘it appears you may no longer be of any use to my husband!’

What good was being queen if she couldn’t stick two fingers up to the patriarchy and be a bit rachet sometimes?

Hughs gaze locked on her, filled with contempt, as ever. ‘Your husband, the king,’ he spat.

‘Oh,’ she said softly. The crowd quitened into a faint murmur, waiting with baited breath for the queen’s repsonse. ‘Oh no, no, no. Have you not heard? My husband is as good as dead, and England has a new king!’

The crowd once again erupted.

‘Long live King Edward III!’ Isabella bellowed, ‘And may God have mercy on you, my lord, for he knows you have been a very naughty boy.’

She winked at her enemy as the peasantry roared. And for a moment, she felt a tinge of sadness. She enjoyed their rivalry, she was quite certain she would even miss it. But the time had come for the Despenser reign of terror to end.

As the executioner prepared his sword in the fire, Isabella took stock of where she was and the scene around her. England was ablaze with revenge. The country had never been more united. But what a shitshow it was to get to this point.

Actually, how did we get to this point? Isabella asked herself.

Well, let me tell you the story.

The story of a queen, a king and his favourites, and how his life ended with a red-hot poker up his bum (jokes that one is just a myth…or is it?).

This is the story of Edward II of England and Isabella of France.