My Attendance At His Majesty’s Council--Medieval Satire
- kweiquartey
- May 5
- 4 min read
Updated: May 5
Wherein little policy is discussed and flattery flows more copiously than wine at His Majesty's banquet.
Medieval satire still resonates
What happens when nobody challenges the king?
A piece of medieval satire—not about dragons and knights, but about ego, inertia, and the slow suffocation of reason
This account, recently recovered from the royal archives, documents the seventeenth Council convened under His Majesty. Recorded faithfully by a trusted scribe of the realm, it reveals a scene marked by pageantry, sycophancy, and a noted absence of governance. Titles remain unaltered for the benefit of the court. Modern equivalents are provided below for those unfamiliar with the language of the kingdom.
I did, on that day, scribe the proceedings of he seventeenth convening of His Majesty’s Council. Drapes of heavy, brown velvet darkened the chamber, but the long wooden table around which the Council Members sat gleamed with a most radiant sheen. The walls bore ornaments touched with the faintest of gold leaf more fit for a poorly peasant than a king.
As His Majesty entered the chamber, every member rose and bowed low, holding their positions until the King seated himself with barely a grunt of acknowledgment. He wore the crown as a glorious burden assigned only to and by him. His expression was sullen. I detected His Majesty's acrid odor, whispered of only in secret and likened by some to that of a chamber pot left too close to the hearth.
Directing his gaze upon the Minister of the Treasury Chest, the King demanded, “Why hath yet mine noble visage not been engraved upon the kingdom’s coin? Must I chisel it myself, like Moses did with his tablets?”
The Minister of the Treasury Chest, beady-eyed and slick with perspiration, stepped forward quickly. “Sire," he said, "it is in the planning stage, but if it should please Your Majesty, I hath prepared two alternatives for the royal coinage.”
With a bow so deep it seemed to pain the minister, he unfurled a parchment before the King, revealing two golden likenesses. His Majesty took a few moments to peer at the images, tilting his head first one way, then another.
His finger hovered over the designs, and then he pointed. “This one,” he growled, “doth portray mine neck as sagging. Who hath drawn this insult?”
The minister stammered, “An apprentice, Sire. He hath since been—”
“Banish him at once,” the King snapped. “From the mint, from the guild, from the kingdom if need be.” He pointed decisively to the version of his choosing--that with the most radiant glow and noble silhouette. “This one. It doth capture my power and dominion.
"Yes, Sire," the minister said, dabbing his perspiring forehead with a white handkerchief. “And lo, thy tariffs hath smitten the merchant lords of foreign lands. They now pay thrice what once they did, which we celebrateth as a most glorious win.”
His Highness looked up expectantly for the next supplicant. The High Keeper of Health Potions approached, holding a bottle of an amber tincture and miracle vapors. He spoke with a raspy, shaky voice, whose cause was unknown to the royal physicians. “Thy wondrous breath, O King, is incorporated herein,” he said with a bow. “It will slay the present plague that roams the land. I hath bottled it for the masses—though some, weak of faith, have already perished. Henceforth, all will be well, Sire."
The King nodded in satisfaction. His breath, because, yea, only He, The King, could fix it.
Leaning forward to address His Majesty with reverence, the Oracle of the Plague Scrolls added, “The sickness was conjured by thine enemies to distract from thy glory. Only thou art real. The rest of us are but images in your likeness.”
The Warden of Law, quill in hand, whispered as he scribbled: “Sire, I hath discovered a clause deep within the Scroll of Founding Fathers. It declareth: ‘The King is above the law, especially if he declareth it loudly and oft.’”
The Minister of the Whispering Wind stepped forward with practiced reverence. “The villagers chant thy praises, Sire. I know this, for I penned their chants myself. And let us not forget thy conquest upon the royal green. Twelve under par, Sire—though the holes were but nine in number. A feat unmatched, save perhaps by thyself last fortnight.”
The Keeper of the Border Moat stepped forward, splattered with the muck of the moat. “Thy wall stands tall, Majesty," he lied. "It is impenetrable." Completion of the wall was nowhere nigh, but the Keeper did not want to draw the King's ire.
At last, the Dark Lady of the Climate Scrolls bowed low and said, “The forests burneth not from heat, but from longing. They yearn for thy touch, my liege, and the raking of the terrain that no forest conflagration shall return.”
The King, now swollen with self-satisfaction, stood and declared the meeting a triumph, yet ne'er a problem was solved and nothing had been concluded.
“I grow weary,” His Highness declared. “I shall retire to Mar-El-Ego, my coastal sanctuary of reflection and golf. None shall disturb me there unless bearing great tribute or gifts to His Majesty or to kneel and kiss the ring."
Glossary for Commoners and Scribes Alike:
Lord of War — Secretary of Defense
Minister of the Treasury Chest — Secretary of the Treasury
High Keeper of Health Potions — Secretary of Health and Human Services
Warden of Law — Attorney General
Minister of the Whispering Wind — Communications Director
Keeper of the Border Moat — Secretary of Homeland Security
Oracle of the Plague Scrolls — Surgeon General or Pandemic Advisor
Dark Lady of the Climate Scrolls — EPA Administrator
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