MAY WE FEED THE KING, Booker-shortlisted poet's novel

MAY WE FEED THE KING
REBECCA PERRY
Transit Books (non-affiliate Bookshop.org link)
$17.99 ebook, preorder now for delivery 29 September 2026

SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2026 BOOKER PRIZE Winner will be announced on 9 November.

Rating: 5* of five

The Publisher Says: She is a curator, who spends her time dressing the rooms of historic buildings to bring them to life. But in the lush private quarters of a medieval palace, she finds herself so transfixed by the reign of an almost-forgotten King that the edges of her life begin to blur.

He is a reluctant ruler with no hunger for power, rushed to the throne after the untimely deaths of his older brothers. But it isn't long before whispers begin to fly around the court. And with the growing belief that the King is not fit for the throne comes the idea that another might rule in his stead.

May We Feed the King dances between the lives of a historical subject who risks the future of his kingdom and a woman who turns to the past to hide from her present. Laced with desire and longing, it is a playful, stirring meditation on history and storytelling: on what makes a King 'Great', and a life meaningful.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: A poet penning a literary novel about an unnamed museum curator grieving an unstated loss while she is engaged in a project that reimagines the physical world of an unnamed surprise king in his unnamed palace on its 750th anniversary of foundation and use.

I have been deciphering archives and curating semi-permanent scenes (domestic, culinary and otherwise) in medieval buildings for the past twenty-two years. When you see a replica feast scene in the great hall of an old building, I am the person who placed the pomegranates beside the pie, and for a very good reason. When you come upon a room, cordoned off with red rope, beyond which you see an open book on a desk, a chunk of bread picked hollow, and a quill in an ink pot that is empty of ink, I am telling you something about the person who lives in that room. The ink may be purple, and even though no one can see it in the straightforward sense, one in a thousand people will sense it. Ultimately, I want my work to communicate with everyone, but it is those people I really hold in my mind.

Sounds drearily precious, like a poem, like all the pit-sniffing Literary Novels we're subextually told us mouth-breathers are too dullwitted to Appreciate, no?

No. And no one is more surprised than me. I was interested in reading the story because, well, Booker snobbery is the honest way to say it. (I'm still salty that US Anglophone authors are now eligible for what was explicitly a Commonwealth storytelling prize...twelve years and not over it yet.) As the story unfolds in past and present, the real reason I kept going and going hit me...I'm a sucker for the hyperfixated, the deep-focusing narrow-vision-having wonks of History. It's endlessly interesting to me that someone could get this interested in creating an immersive experience for a modern audience of small size centering the medieval world of a minor, forgotten royal. Just to conceive of it is interesting abd then to sell the idea, to research the minutiae, to think through the problems inherent in the process...yep, I'm in!

Of course what's driving our curator to the bizarre lengths has to be very, very painful, very overwhelming to demand this depth of avoidance; it's a good decision for Author Perry to leave it imprecise, unfocused because specificity ruins relatability. I've been that deep in grief so I suppose there's more than a little fellow feeling driving my interest. I get in a visceral way the desire to lose one's hurting self in an all-absorbing, unrelated subject that can't trigger hurting memories or aching similarities that will fuel the downward spiral: "There’s something that can happen when I am embarking on a project on the scale of the work at the palace, and so heavily focused on food scenes: my appetite sours, and real food becomes some-thing of a threat. I can’t be sure if it is becoming more or less real, too much itself, too vivid, or something altogether different. Whatever, it makes me not want to eat."

Probably the short chapters Author Perry alternates between present and past are going to annoy some readers enough to cause comment from them. I'd like to offer an alternative to the annoyed noises by saying that mosaics are made of tesserae that look like nothing while the artist is assembling them to a pattern they alone see entire. But the pieces that look so unlikely, so unimportant, are integral to a whole we need patience to experience as intended: "One evening on the way home from the palace—after a full day in the shadow of the archives, where we had sat, the archivist and I, my left biceps pressed against their right, making a double-width human—I stopped in a local bar for a glass of wine.

These are things that I had forgotten how to do, that I had forgotten were possible."

It can enrich the experience of seeing the whole very much to recall the process of being present as it's made. This poetically rich story, a concentrated, allusive work of reckoning with a life's boundaries and endings is the reward a reader will remember and treasure long after the book itself retires to its shelf-bound afterlife.