The Boy The King Loved

and now a story. It's a bit of a medieval fantasy, which is peculiar from me, since I usually don't like to read or write that kind of thing. I'll post it here in installments. We'll see if it ever gets finished.
There was a boy beloved by the King. Indeed, beloved so much the more because he was not the King’s own kin. The child was not much of a boy, but kind enough that one noticed so almost straight away. He was at turns talkative to a fault or taciturn without explanation. He was sturdily built but carried himself as though he fancied himself less imposing in stature. He would sometimes be scolded by his tutor for crossing his legs knee-over-knee.
“A man rests an ankle crosswise his opposing knee, son. Let no one mistake you for an effeminate,” the tutor would chide. Yet when safe from the reach of his tutor's swat, the boy would fold his right leg over left, tucking his elbows into his sides and folding his hands atop his doubled knees. His shoulders would slouch and he would glance up to whomever he was speaking with a steady gaze that hinted at gentleness. Or perhaps some unnamed and latent guilt felt at some existential culpability. It was this amalgamation of guilt and gentleness the King loved most.
The Kingdom in that time was dangerous, over run with shameless men who scoffed at the law. They harmed the weak and fled the authority of the monarchy, living in tents outside the city walls. The King would often sit quietly in the darkness. His solemn eyes glimmering with some small, mysterious hope his creased forehead did not betray. He would eat only salted meats and country breads. He would drink only the most meager portion of wine diluted immensely with water. Clear nights when the moon was out, the King would take the air on the parapet. The King seemed to swell beneath the moon. So much more so did he shrink back from the sun’s direct glare.
Huge, ancient, and heavy tapestries were hung across the glorious and likewise-ancient stained glass of the King’s court. The walls, where they had previously hung, stood bare. The special awkwardness resulting of the misplaced tapestries took on a tremulous menace as the vague twilight shadows crept across the space as hours lulled by in silence. The jester would yawn. The cup-bearer would sip drunkenly from the King’s chalice in some shadowed doorway. The Queen, perpetually pursued by a draft, would recline near her husband. Her lap would bear a fine quilt. The quilt would rest atop many knit blankets nesting about her knees, like a doll reclining among scarves. The knit blankets were of the kind the Queen remembered from her youth.