" - so, it seemeth to Us that the truth should be known."
EE cringed. Dealing with authors was easy enough, but he couldn't cope with the massive figure who stood before him in doublet and hose. And codpiece. The codpiece was terrifying.
"But why now - ?"
"Because of this travesty that the BBC hath wrought!"
"Um - 'The Tudors'? But it's very popular - "
The monarch's lip curled. "They have set this Jonathan Rhys Meyers to play Us! He is a knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; furthermore, he is a wuss - We essay thy modern parlance, but We have not yet mastered it. No matter, sirrah scrivener; thou shalt set all aright with the stroke of thy pen." The king leaned forward. "If thou wouldst not have thy head smitten from thy shoulders!"
EE cowered back. "I'll do what I can - "
"And they concentrate on the bedroom antics!" the king continued. "They give not a moment to the agonies of conscience that We suffered; how We thought and We prayed before the breach with the Bishop of Rome; the scholars and philosophers We consulted - "
EE's voice shook as he said, "Well - we have to think about sales - you know, popular appeal, all that sort of thing - "
"The populace shall buy Our memoir, whether it appeal or no!" the king roared. His voice shook the room; several manuscripts toppled into the recycling bin. EE was silently thankful for that, at least.
"But," the king added, "if there must be talk of fornication - We have much to say anent Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard; for those ladies were, as thou mightest say, verily skanks and hos."
EE's eyes lit up. "Now you're talking! - Sire."