Margaret was a simple soul, from humble origins, and all this pomp and circumstance surrounding the wedding was mostly lost on her, even though she was at the centre of it. The king had swept her off her feet but a fortnight ago and already the mud of her father’s pig farm was a remote memory.
In the quiet of her bedroom, after the festivities, Margaret’s mind immediately wandered to the book. It had been just one of many gifts, most of them far more valuable, but the important etiquette surrounding its offering intrigued her.
She opened the book. There were no words, just pictures of unspeakable acts, in graphic detail. Etchings of a naked man and woman, cavorting endlessly.
As her new husband entered the room, flabby and filthy and naked, the reality of the inevitable aftermath of a fairy tale wedding hit the naive country girl, now queen.
“There is no stork involved, is there?” she sobbed.