And, with an apology, the King handed her what was left, watching her wistfully till she ate the last crumb.
"Delicious! I never tasted anything finer!" she cried. "I must have the recipe."
"I must have the cook!" cried the King, turning to Rafe, with a broad grin on his merry, fat face. "You must come with me and cook such pies for every meal. Yes, I will have them for breakfast, too," he insisted, in response to a protest from the Queen.
Just then up stepped Hugh, the Lord Mayor.
"Sire," said he, bowing low, "will Your Majesty deign to point out to me the pie which has best pleased you, that I may have it set in the place of honor, and give the prize to the maker?"
"That I cannot do," said the King, "for the pie no longer exists. I have eaten it!" And he slapped his generous waistband. "But give whatever prize there may be to this worthy fellow, whom I now dub Baron Applepy. Baron, wear this ring in token of my pleasure in your pie." He drew a fine ruby from his finger and gave it to Rafe.
"And this is for the little maid," said the Queen, taking a beautiful pearl necklace and tossing it over Meg's curls.
But Roger, the master cook, stood by and tore his hair when he saw what was happening.
Then up came the yoke of white oxen drawing the cart bearing the prize. And the Lord Mayor gave a goad into Rafe's hands, with words of congratulation.
"Now, mount and come with me," said the King.