A 15th-century King’s squire confesses to his friends what he really does for a job.

Somewhere in a 15th-century tavern: 

“I wipe the King’s arse.”

The table grew silent. His friends stared at him, wide-eyed and blinking slowly.

“Yes,” William added. “I am the King’s arse-wiper.”

“William…” Joan began carefully. “We were talking about the Fletchers’ dispute with the Coopers.”

“I know.” William took a sip of his ale.

His friends exchanged looks, each silently pleading with the other for help.

“I am the Groom of the Stool,” William continued. “I help him undress because the man is apparently incapable of doing it himself. Then I assist him to the stool, even though he knows exactly where it is. After that, I wait and endure every noise and smell until he is ready to be cleaned up like a baby, so he can continue his duties as our King.”

“Shhht,” Thomas hissed, glancing around the tavern. “This is considered treason.”

“I wiped the King’s arse this morning, and he ate beans last night,” William said, laughing manically. “I don’t give a King’s arse about treason.”

“I thought you said you enjoyed your position at the royal palace,” Joan said.

“I did enjoy it when I was the Keeper of the Wardrobe, the Gentleman of the Robes!” William exclaimed. “I would choose his clothes, jewels, and linens, or pack his bags.”

“How…?” Thomas began, uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced at Joan. “What happened?”

“I came too close,” William whispered.

“Yeah, you did,” Thomas snorted. His joke fell flat. William gave him a murderous stare and continued speaking.

“He started trusting me. And how did he reward me, you ask?” William paused and let his eyes sweep around the table.

“We didn’t—” Joan tried.

“He promoted me to the shit cleaner, the dung master, the toilet guard!” William shouted. The ale dragged words from him that he would not speak on any other day.

Thomas slapped a hand over William’s mouth. “Shut your mouth.”

William sighed. “You can still do this.”

“Do what?” Thomas frowned.

“Put your hand on someone’s mouth to shut them up.” William lifted his right hand and stared at it with melancholy. “I have forever lost that privilege.”

Thomas pulled his hand back, wiped it on his jacket, and pushed his chair a little further away.

“Surely it is the highest honour?” Joan tried. She nudged another ale towards him with one finger. “You are the most trusted member of the King’s entourage!"

“I have seen things,” William said. “Things I will never unsee.” He stared into the eyes of his friends, his lip quivering slightly. “The King stole that from me—my innocence.”

Thomas reached for William’s shoulder but changed his mind before he touched him.

William took a deep breath, drained his ale, and slammed the tankard onto the table. “So, what is this business with the Fletchers? Have they stolen sheep from the Coopers again?”

He continued the conversation as though nothing had happened, as though he had not just confessed his true fate. His friends told him about the family dispute, but never again, throughout the long and unending life William lived as Groom of the Stool, would they sit close to him.

William died at the age of seventy, which at the time was an extraordinary age. Every day of that long life, as he waited in that horrid chamber, he cursed the gods for granting him, of all people, what felt dangerously close to eternal life.