Quentin hated the king. He hated his guts.
There was no particular reason. He just did. He even paid in small change as to avoid using the banknotes which had the king’s image prominently printed on them. Sure, the change sported the likeness of the previous monarch but at least he was dead.
So when it transpired the king would visit his town, Quentin set out to annihilate the despot. Over the course of a year he assembled an vast arsenal of gunpowder. He also gathered a motley crew of king-haters who would help him execute the treacherous plot.
The day of the king’s arrival everything went according to plan. The gunpowder was moved to the hidden cavern below town hall where the monarch would hobnob with local aristocracy. The five-minute fuse was lit and gave the conspirators ample time to escape to the other end of town square, from where they’d have first-row seats to the downfall of a monarch. Sipping a warm ale the king-haters looked forward to town hall being blown to smithereens, the blast killing everyone inside.
But that was not how it panned out. There was no blast, just a flurry of police officers springing from all over the place, clubbing the conspirators. Apparently Quentin had not gone about quietly in his scheme, even going as far as bragging about it in the pub during most of his near-daily brawls.
Yet even as he was beaten into a bloody mess Quentin’s smile never disappeared. He knew the yeomen of the Tower of London would be finding the royal ravens dead any time now, poisoned, the result of a cunning side-operation he had purposely nót bragged about.
Remember, remember the fifth of November, Quentin muttered.
Every citizen of the First Republic would, for centuries to come.
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