If I Were King

In the soot-stained twilight of medieval Paris, where gargoyles sneer at starving poets, François Villon—rhyme-smith, tavern ghost, gutter prince—dodges the noose one more time, only to find the crown of France pressed into his grimy palms by a monarch so weary of power he’d trade it for a crust. For seven tremulous dawns the guttersnipe becomes regent: he doles out bread lines in the shadow of Notre-Dame, scribbles lampoons that sing like arrows through tapestries of silk, and negotiates with the Duke of Burgundy over goblets of mulled blood-red wine. Courtiers gasp as the upstart king flips protocol on its powdered wig: he dines with thieves, armors prostitutes in stolen chain-mail, and whispers seditious ballads to falcons circling the Seine. Yet every edict he inks tightens the lariat already looped by the Grand Constable, who schemes to yank the throne back beneath the gilded heel of legitimacy. Between masquerades lit by dripping torches and clandestine escapes through ossuaries, Villon’s heart fractures for the aristocratic blonde who dared to trade her diamond collar for one night inside his tattered doublet. When the week expires, the poet must choose: bow to the ax that covets his swaggering neck, or crown his verses in eternal fire and let the monarchy burn.