Uneasy was the head that wore the crown.

The head, that is, of King Robert the Eternal of Beacon Hill.

A stirring of dissent was in the air, and as kings from Charles I of England to Louis XVI of France had learned, a waft born of a butterfly’s wing could grow to a gale great enough to fell royal oaks.

Poor Charles had met the ax, while Louis had gone to the guillotine. And it had all started because their legislative bodies had become restive, then resentful, then rebellious, then revolutionary, thought King Robert. It just went to show that if you left a rogue notion to fester, it could bloom faster than a marijuana plant under a grow light.

All around him on Beacon Hill, the king heard whispers — and sometimes more. When princeling Brian Dempsey, the House’s royal budget writer, had announced his departure for the high clover of lobbyland, Representative Russell Holmes had made remarks that were nigh unto treason.

Russell had opined that the kingdom’s various left-leaning caucuses should start organizing immediately, the better to elect King Robert’s successor, or perhaps even wage a challenge to the sovereign two years hence. Worse, he had the temerity to observe that King Robert had once pledged he would abide by the eight-year term limit in the royal rules — before, that is, he had swung his terrible swift sword and smote that rule into dust.

Talk of your lèse-majesté! What was it about King Robert the Eternal that Holmes didn’t understand? The king had done what any proper despot would do, and exiled Holmes from leadership and its rewards. Never known for his silver tongue, he had explained his move with some periphrastic palaver: “When you make decisions in terms of putting folks into various positions . . . you just look in terms of putting the best team together that you see, and fitting people into places with their expertise and whatnot.’’

Eloquent it was not, but his subjects knew what he meant: If your expertise is talking to the press, you’ll soon find yourself fitting into legislative Siberia. To the lowliest footman, they also knew Holmes had it right in saying: “He doesn’t want anyone to criticize him, so he’s making an example of me.’’

There were problems elsewhere as well. Why, over in his Senate principality, Prince Stanley Rosenberg was forever expounding about the liberties he had granted his charges as part of “shared leadership.’’ The very term made the king shudder. The Senate had even begun to engage in a strange activity in which the various senators stood and discussed their plans. Debate, they called it. Verily, all that confused Robert. What if senators voiced a sentiment or passed an amendment contrary to the royal will? But Prince Stanley seemed not to mind.

Why, the Senate had even put out a big report on all the bills they had passed, replete with eye-catching notifications about what had become of that work. Time and again, those notifications read: “Sent to House.’’ The real message there wasn’t lost on a monarch as sly as Robert: Don’t blame the Senate for the languid legislative pace.

And now, 2017 — also known as the Year of Our Lordly Remuneration, in honor of the pay hike that had raised royal salaries as high as an elephant’s eye — the calendar had hit the halfway mark with precious little done.

The sovereign shivered. Once he had felt like Louis XIV, he of the 72-year reign: “L’état, c’est moi.’’ These days, however, his sentiments were more those of Louis XV: “Après moi, le déluge.’’

He thought of the pay hike and of his gilded pension — and whispered a prayer unique to the Kingdom of Beacon Hill: Please, Lord, forestall the deluge at least until I’ve gotten my high three.

Scot Lehigh can be reached at lehigh@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @GlobeScotLehigh.