Rodney Broadshoulders walked down the grand hall toward the throne room wiping his hand on his pantaloons, bemoaning the fact that pigeon poop just won’t go away. He stopped in mid-swipe as a portly courtier came through the doors with a little girl in his arms. At first Rodney thought she was a mere child but as they came closer he noticed that she wasn’t built like a mere child. This was a fully developed woman, just extremely short.
“Clarence, oh Clarence,” the young lady muttered, her lovely blue eyes rolling toward the heavens.
The older man stopped and pushed her away. “Listen, girly girl. You can make it the rest of the way by yourself. I’m not risking getting my head chopped off for nobody.” He promptly made a u-turn and entered the throne room.
She lost her balance for a mere moment before regaining her senses enough to stumble down the hall, still fainting away and recovering, all the while repeating, “Clarence, oh Clarence.”
Rodney admired her insistence on giving the impression she needed a man to lean on while the circumstances proved otherwise. However, Rodney preferred tall, statuesque women. When he took the damsel in his arms to kiss her, Rodney didn’t want to worry that he might break her. During his ruminations he had continued to walk toward his destination. When he bumped his tall forehead against the door he realized he had arrived. Carefully he opened the doors and slipped into the room. The queen was in a deep discussion with Lord Steppingstone, and Rodney hoped she would not notice he was late. He was concentrating so hard on being inconspicuous that he tripped over his own sizeable feet and fell on his face. This created quite a thump which reverberated throughout the hall.
Everyone shifted attention from the queen to the large young man ungracefully clambering to his feet.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Steppingstone resumed his debate with Elizabeth. “Yes, yes, that is all fine and well, but we have a national pride to consider here.”
“You do not share my pride in our fellow Englishmen?” she asked sharply.
While Steppingstone continued to protest the questioning of his patriotism, Rodney shuffled his way around the back of the courtiers, excusing himself all the way and continuing to wipe his hand on his pantaloons. His efforts to blend in failed miserably. Finally he reached the throne and stood next to Robin who looked at him in askance.
“This stuff never comes off.” He smiled wanly as he wiped his pigeon poopy finger again.
“How shall we respond to King Philip?” Steppingstone demanded in frustration.
“Has my esteemed brother-in-law requested a response?” Elizabeth was a cool old negotiator. One can only assume she was the star of her school debate team—if she had gone to school and had been on the debate team.
“Not yet.” Steppingstone bowed his head in acquiescence.
“Then no response is warranted.”
“But we should be prepared in the event King Phillip does demand an explanation.” As though catching his wind, Steppingstone raised his head for a new verbal head-on attack.
Though slow-witted, Rodney realized the chamberlain was questioning his queen’s ability to handle foreign rulers, and he didn’t like it. “Queen Elizabeth doesn’t have to explain anything to that Spanish scum!”
“No, young Rodney Broadshoulders,” she interrupted him by raising her hand. “You mustn’t speak so of my brother-in-law.”
“But your Majesty—“
“Don’t tempt my good nature, boy.” Her tone hardened, as one would discipline an aggressive hunting hound.
“How come I get whacked, and he only gets a mild reprimand?” Robin asked peevishly.
Elizabeth pointed dramatically to the young man. “He is impetuous youth. He knows no better.” Then she turned to Robin. “You have been tested by the fires of time. You should know better.”
“It couldn’t be because he’s young and better looking than me?” Everyone in the court recognized this was the Earl of Leicester’s blatant attempt to pull a compliment from the queen, and they were right.
She leaned toward him and caressed his cheek. “Younger, yes, but in my eyes, never better looking.” Without warning Elizabeth reached behind Robin’s head and forced his lips into hers and the next few minutes were spent in a loud smacking tongue battle. Perhaps battle was too strong a description. They both enjoyed it way too much.
“Ahem,” Steppingstone finally grunted.
Elizabeth pulled away and appeared flustered. Taking out a lace hanky she daintily wiped her mouth. “Oh. Ah. Yes. We were discussing…ah..what were we discussing?”
“The Spanish scum,” Rodney offered.
“His Highness, King Phillip,” Steppingstone corrected.
“Ah yes, my noble brother-in-law. What does the scum—I mean, Phillip—want?”
“He has sent his ambassador to convey his thoughts.” The chamberlain bowed deeply.
“Very well, bring him in.”
“As you wish, your Majesty.” Staying in his bowed position, Steppingstone backed up all the way to the door. This he did with great finesse, only bumping his ass into a couple of courtiers. Finally he exited.
Rodney fell at Elizabeth’s feet to grovel. “Oh, your Majesty! Forgive my stupid toungue !”
“Yes, young Broadshoulders, I forgive your stupid tongue.”
As he rose and stepped back, Steppingstone entered, followed by Vacacabeza and Maria. He led them to the throne where he threw his arm towards them in an elaborate fashion and enunciated, “Your Majesty, his honor Senor Alfonso de Vacacabeza and his ward Senorita Maria Fleurette Mortence Hildegarde de Horenhausen.”
Vacacabeza gave a deep bow, but Maria only managed a shallow curtsy, stopped by a rather loud grunt under her gown. Rodney’s mouth flew open. Maria surely must have been the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon.
“Your Majesty,” Vacacabeza began.
“My God!” Rodney stumbled forward. “She’s gorgeous!”
The ambassador snapped his head in the direction of the young courtier. “I beg your pardon?”
“You must excuse the impetuous youth,” Elizabeth explained. “He is more knowledgeable on the field of battle than in the royal court.”
“She puts the radiance of my broadsword to shame!” Rodney’s eyes glistened.
“Please introduce us to this young lady.” The queen motioned to Robin to pull Rodney back into line.
“She’s no lady. She’s an angel. She’s—“
Robin put his hand over Rodney’s mouth. “It’s for your own good, lad.”
“This is my ward,” Vacacabeza said. It was her wish to accompany me on this trip.”
“How lovely,” Elizabeth commented with a lilt in her voice.
Rodney wriggled his mouth free. “You can say that again.”
“Once shall suffice.” She kept her attention on Maria. “Tell me, my dear, why did you wish to come to muggy, foggy old England? Surely it can’t compare to the beautiful climes of your native Spain.”
“One of my grandparents came from England,” Maria explained in a perfect English accent. “It was my grandmother on my father’s side or my grandfather on my mother’s side. I become easily confused with genealogies.”
“I love women who become easily confused,” Rodney murmured amorously.
“Shh.” Robin put his hand over the young man’s mouth again.
“We are pleased you have returned to your homeland—at least one of them.”
A gong rang out.
“Ah, time for luncheon,” Elizabeth announced with pleasure.
“Great! I’m starving!” a youthful male voice rang out from beneath Maria’s dress.
The exclamation caught Elizabeth’s interest as she stood. She was about to examine the verbal clothing more closely when Robin uttered one of his inappropriate remarks.
“But I just had buttered buns for brunch.”
Elizabeth carried her scepter with her at all times just for occasions like this, and she whacked him so hard the bonk echoed throughout the hallway. That was why she kept him on her left side so he would be easy to swat under control. On this particular day to her left were Maria, who still walked like she had a pig between her legs, and Ambassador Vacacabeza. Rodney lurked hungrily directly behind Maria.
“I must confess,” the senor said, in a tone that barely passed for pleasant conversation, “I advised my ward against coming to England.”
“May I ask why, Senor Vacacabeza?” the queen asked.
“It should be quite obvious, your Majesty.”
“No, it is not.”
“You can say that again,” Rodney interjected.
“Once will suffice.”
“In Spain, we try to protect the sensitivities of our senoritas,” he replied in austerity.
“Well, we protect those things in England too, whatever they are!” Rodney jutted his sizeable chin between Maria and her legal guardian.
“How quaint.” Vacacabeza smiled ironically. “The functional illiterate allowed in the royal presence.”
Rodney looked at Robin. “Was that an insult?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied.
“I know words as good as anybody.” Rodney cleared his throat, preparing for a recitation. “This other Eden, demi-paradise, this royal throne of kings, this sculptured isle—“
“Sceptered! Sceptered!” blasted forth from under Maria’s gown.
(Author’s note: Readers are probably becoming curious about who—or what—was speaking from beneath the senorita’s dress. Have patience. All will be revealed in just a few more pages.)
Elizabeth looked around bemused and then shook her head. “Be that as it may, this young lady is here, and she is most welcome.”
An attendant opened the dining hall door and bowed.
“Ah, here we are!” Elizabeth announced with relish. She took Maria’s hand. “Come, my dear. You shall sit next to me and tell me all about your heritage.”
The Queen nodded graciously to the courtiers who had been waiting for her Majesty so they could begin to chow down. Attendants with large trays of assorted meats and fruits began circulating through the room. Elizabeth sat in the middle with Maria on one side and Robin on the other. Vacacabeza quickly took the chair on the other side of his ward which miffed Rodney to no end. He had to settle for sitting next to Robin which placed him inconveniently on the far side of the table from his newly beloved.
(Author’s note: How the person beneath Maria’s gown situated himself under the skirt and the table is left to the imagination of the reader. One must only assume he was a skilled contortionist and therefore very popular with the young ladies.)
Dogs roamed the dining hall looking for bits of fallen food. They must have been pure-bred dogs; after all this was the royal court and mongrels would have been prohibited.
Elizabeth picked a grape and tossed it in her mouth. “So tell me about your grandparents. I am intrigued.”
Maria began to speak in a French accent. “One grandparent came from Paris. One rumor had it that she had been a Gypsy hiding in Notre Dame Cathedral when she was saved from the gallows by my grandfather, who was a heroic knight visiting from Granada.” She looked at the trays and asked in a Spanish accent, “By the way, where are the refried beans?”
“Oh no!” There went that voice again.
“From there they escaped to the Bordeaux region,” she resumed her French lilt. “Where they grew grapes and trained dogs to sniff out truffles. I think that’s where I gained my taste for wine.”
Rodney leaned as far as he could without coming in between Robin and his roasted half a turkey. “I think I’m in love.”
Robin stuck a drum stick in Rodney’s mouth.
“The other grandmother was supposed to be the love child of Martin Luther and a nun, but we have no birth records to confirm this.” She continued her family history in a clipped German accent. “She was raised by a brew meister and his hausfrau in Munich.”
Rodney spit out his drumstick and threw it on the floor. “Does that mean you like beer too?”
A large, rather lean dog snatched the drumstick and began to trot toward the other end of the table. When he passed Maria, a hand from beneath her dress reached out to snatch it. The dog began to growl angrily and pulled away, trying to keep his dinner. The mysterious hand tugged back just as vigorously, causing Maria’s chair to joggle about precariously.
“My English grandfather was reputed to be a famous painter on his way to Cleves when he stopped in for a beer where my grandmother was a serving wench. After he had finished his portrait of the Cleves princess, he came back through Munich, married my grandmother and took her to England with him.” She paused, her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh,” she said in crisp English, “perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
“Don’t be so nervous, my dear,” Elizabeth reassured her. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” She wrinkled her brow as she concentrated on Maria’s chitty-chitty bang bang chair. “You’re as jumpy as a frog.”
The voice beneath her dress sighed in resignation. “Oh, all right. You can have it.”
And the drumstick slide out, and the dog happily trotted away with it. At that time, the chair settled down, and Maria was able to continue.
“I was born after your coronation, and my father brought me frequently to the English court,” she said in her proper English accent. “It was at this time my father became friends with Senor Vacacabeza, who in his capacity as the Spanish ambassador came to the English court frequently. I have many fond memories of my parents, but when I was twelve they both died of small pox. Senor Vacacabeza, as a friend of my family, agreed to be my guardian.”
“How kind of you, senor.” Elizabeth nodded toward the ambassador and smiled pleasantly.
“It was nothing,” Vacacabeza replied with a shrug. “Any good Spaniard would have done the same.”
Maria looked at him with curiosity and asked in her Spanish accent, “Then why was I in a Catalan monastery for five years?”
“Well,” he began slowly, “you hadn’t developed your—your personality yet.”
“And I see she has a very well developed personality.” Robin had a licentious leer on his face.
Elizabeth took a pear—not one of her favorite fruits—and stuck it in Robin’s mouth.
“I wouldn’t mind escorting your well-developed personality around town tonight,” Rodney said, without sounding half as perverted as Robin had in his observations. Perhaps it was his youth.
Robin took the pear out of his mouth and stuck it in Rodney’s, who promptly spit it out so he could display his boyishly charming smile.
“You escort my ward?” Vacacabeza bristled. “Over my dead body!”
Rodney grabbed a large carving knife and stabbed a leg of mutton. “That happens to be my specialty!”
Elizabeth stood imperiously, which caused everyone else to leap up.
“Broadshoulders!
“The journey was fatiguing, and the meal filling.” The ambassador yawned to defuse the tense situation. “It is time to retire to our chambers.”
“Si.” Maria continued her Spanish lilt. “It is time for my siesta.
“I hope she didn’t eat any of those beans,” the disembodied voice said.
Courtiers were beginning to accustom themselves to the strange emanations from beneath Maria’s dress and therefore ignored the comment.
“I must be refreshed for tea time!” Maria announced as a proper English lady.
Elizabeth nodded and turned for the door. “I shall see you then, my dear.”
Maria curtsied. “Thank you, your Majesty.” One look at Rodney brought the French brogue out of her. “Your name is Broadshoulders. How appropriate.”

Radiation has finally begun for my wife. Several weeks had passed since the encouraging news after the mastectomy. Once anyone has time to reflect before a treatment, the more time the imagination has to run amok.
The internet is mined with all sorts of nuggets—good, bad, true, false–and it’s no different with radiation treatment.
It can burn your skin just like staying on the beach too long.
It can sap your energy just like chemotherapy did.
It can make your hair fall out again, which would be a shame since my wife’s hair is just now peeking through her scalp.
Her first radiation treatment wasn’t all that bad, actually. She had two nurses attending just on her, unlike chemo when she was one of ten or so patients under the care of one nurse who was stressing out from all the work.
If my wife felt a bit cold she immediately received as many heated blankets as she wanted, unlike the treatment room on the other side of the building where blankets often were in short supply.
They radiate several spots around her chest but they are careful to shield areas they had already zapped before treating the rest.
The process does not take very long at all. I began writing this Cancer Chronicle instalment when she went back for the treatment, and she came out as I was beginning to write this paragraph.
That’s progress which gives us hope.

A few years ago, I made the trip of a lifetime and went to England. I rented a car in London and learned how to drive on the wrong side of the road. Which was easier than you’d think because the steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car too.
My plan was to drive west to Stonehenge and Wales, then turn north through the Lake Country and up into Scotland. I’d go east and down into the Midlands and back to London. I took a full month so I could see everything on my own schedule and not on a tour bus schedule.
Everything was going well until I reached this one open plain which was the location of a major battle of the War of the Roses. I paid my fee and went on the tour. Now the most interesting part—at least for me—was the guide’s explanation of a phenomena called the Dogs of War.
“This field was covered with dead soldiers,” he explained, gesturing to the broad green field. “When the sun set, surviving soldiers had only recovered a few of the bodies. In the dark the living soldiers retreated to their camp and the shelter of their tents.
“Around midnight, they awoke to the barking, growling and snarling of dogs,” he continued. “Many of the soldiers lit their torches and ran out to the battlefield. They held the torches high as they walked among the corpses, but they saw no dogs. They continued to hear the barking, howling and snarling, but they saw nothing but the bodies of their fallen comrades.
“The next morning when the soldiers resumed recovering the dead for proper burial,” he said in a lower, more ominous voice, “they saw than many of the corpses had their arms and legs ripped from them, and the limbs had been chewed beyond recognition.
“Thus began the legend of the Dogs of War,” the guide concluded. “Anyone foolhardy enough to venture into the battlefield at midnight heard the howling of dogs. Some received mysterious bites on their legs. And a few were never seen again.”
Back at the inn I sat down for supper with a few of the tourists and our tour guide. Everyone was hungry for more gruesome details, even as they ate their beef pies.”
“What would possess anyone to go into the battlefield alone at midnight,” I asked the guide.
“Courage,” he replied quickly, “but it was the courage of fools and not to be admired.”
After I retired to my bedroom, I could not sleep, thinking how I had, foolishly or not, never done a brave thing in my whole life. Why, I’d never been on a rollercoaster. Not even the little slow ones for toddlers. I decided that since I was sixty-five years old, I had better be brave now or else I never would be.
So at eleven o’clock I dressed and went downstairs. I saw that a few of the tourists and the guide were still in the bar, downing large mugs of ale.
“And where would you be going this time of night, sir?” the desk clerk asked.
I smiled and said, “I just want to go for a walk.”
“And where might you go on your walk?” the clerk inquired. He didn’t sound like he disapproved but there seemed a tinge of concern in his voice.
“I don’t know,” I replied with a shrug. “The battlefield, maybe.”
“Suit yourself.” The clerk averted his eyes and resumed his bookkeeping chores.
The battlefield was only a fifteen-minute walk away from the inn. The night air was a bit nippy but not uncomfortable. Clouds partly covered the moon, so I had to watch my step. Once I reached the historic site, I discovered the sky was now totally covered in thick, low-hanging clouds. I pulled out my little flashlight and looked at my watch.
Midnight.
And no howling Dogs of War.
Hmph. Just as I thought. I turned to return to the roadway leading back to the inn when I heard some rustling in the distance. I stopped to listen. The rustling developed into a rumbling which evolved into the distinct pounding of dogs’ feet. Soon after that, a howl broke through the dark silence.
My mouth flew open. I began turning in circles, trying to determine which direction the dogs’ barking was coming from. It came from every direction. There was no escape. As the howling became louder and louder, I fell to my knees and covered my head with my trembling arms. In no time at all, I felt the hot breath of dogs at my neck. I cringed, waiting for the sharp teeth to tear into my flesh.
But instead, I felt wet puppy licks. The scary growling became puppy yipping. Then it was over. I opened my eyes and stood. Looking around, I saw nothing and heard nothing but cricket song. I was in deep thought, pondering what had just happened when I heard a human voice.
“Hey, you!” It was the tour guide running toward me. “I came after you when the clerk told me what you were up to.” He held up his flashlight to my face, searching for bloody teeth marks. “You all right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He leaned in for a closer look at my neck. “Do you know you got dog slobber all over your neck?”
“After I heard the barking, I dropped to the ground and tried to cover my head. Then the howling turned into puppy dog sounds. And I felt licks all over me.”
The guide took a step back and stared at me, as though he had never seen me before.
“Well, I’ll be. I thought I’d never see the likes of your kind,” he said in awe.
“And what kind is that?” I didn’t know how to take his comment.
“There’s another part of the legend which I rarely tell on the tour because its occurrence is too rare, well, I’d never seen it before in my lifetime. My grandfather said he had seen one of you when he was a lad, but I didn’t really believe you existed.”
“So, what am I exactly?” To be frank, I was beginning to feel a bit like a freak.
“You are that rare breed called a good, caring, gentle person.” He took the light out of my face. “Legend has it that if a good, caring, gentle person wandered into this field at midnight, as you did tonight, the phantom dogs would attack. But once they sensed that person was good, caring, and gentle, they would turn into puppies and lick the person as though he were a long lost friend.”
“But I thought dogs could sense fear, and I admit I was not brave when I fell down. I was afraid.”
“You just thought you were afraid. The dogs knew. They have that way about them. There’s an old saying around here. Never trust a man who doesn’t love dogs. And never trust a man a dog doesn’t love.”

“Finally,” Steppingstone announced, pausing to indicate his disapproval of her tardiness, “Elizabeth of England, the virgin queen!”
Robin emitted a loud guffaw which caused the courtiers standing around the throne room to look at him, some with amusement, others with censure and a few with abject fear that they were about to witness a beheading right there on the spot. Even though he was an aging gentleman with an inflated obsession with sex, Robin was not without some sensitivity for court decorum. Blushing a deep crimson, he put his hand over his mouth.
“Harumph, um, cough, cough. Drafty castle, you know.
Elizabeth, now seated and in possession of her scepter, bonked him on the head with said scepter which emitted a honking noise. In her later years, the queen developed a slapstick humor which mostly manifested itself in her new scepter equipped with sound effects. She thought it was extremely clever, though no one else at court dared acknowledge its existence.
“My Lord Hillary Steppingston, high lord chamberlain,” she began, in her most proper English enunciation, “what news today?”
“News of Francis Drake and his band of pirates.” He replied in his most judgmental tone. He was quite proud of his ability to hint at ridiculing the queen and her favorite minions without exposing himself to accusations of disloyalty.
Robin stepped forward as though he wanted to thrash Steppingstone. “They are not pirates! They are noble men serving their queen!”
Elizabeth bonked him again, causing the earl to take a step back like a well-trained British bulldog.
“Be they pirates or noble men,” the lord chamberlain continued, arching an eyebrow, “Drake and his crew are causing great embarrassment to your Highness.”
“And how does this embarrass me?” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Francis Drake does not sail at my command.”
Robin, admittedly a thick-skulled loyal subject snickered and again received a bonk from the royal sound effect stick.
“The Spanish fleet has sunk a ship flying the English flag,” Steppingstone announced, raising an eyebrow. “All subjects of your Majesty should be embarrassed.
A beautiful petite lady-in-waiting, stepped out of the throng of courtiers. She was not even five feet tall but she spoke in a loud fearful voice. “Lord Steppingstone, which—which ship sank?”
“And why should this concern you, Mistress Alice Wrenn?” The chamberlain cocked his head, looking at her with suspicion.
“She speaks a curiosity shared by her queen,” Elizabeth interceded with authority. “Which ship was it?”
“The Aquamarine Pigeon.”
“Oh no!” Alice swooned into the arms of the closest male courtier.
“Lord—oh what the hell is his name, Robin? All of these fat old men in fancy pants look the same to me. Never mind. You there, holding Mistress Wrenn, take her to her quarters. Swooning is very distracting while the crown is attempting to conduct business.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” the man said and began guiding the young lady towards the door.
“And you better come right back,” Elizabeth ordered. “I see the leer on your face. You better not try anything with her. I know all about you fat old men. You’re all the same!”
“Yes, your Majesty. I mean, no, your Majesty. I shall return in the twinkling of an eye.”
“Clarence, oh, Clarence!” Alice rambled as the man took her out the door.
Robin leaned into Elizabeth and whispered, “What got into her, Bessie?”
“I hope nothing got into her,” she rasped. “Later, Robin.”
“What an odd reaction,” Steppingstone wondered aloud.
“She is but a child,” the queen replied with a faint smile.
“A well-proportioned child, if you ask me.” Robin, unfortunately, was acting like all the other old men who irritated her Majesty so much.
“No one asked you.” She bonked him again. Ignoring the titters from the court, Elizabeth returned her attention to the lord high chamberlain. “Were all lost on the Aquamarine Pigeon?”
He shrugged. “All preliminary reports indicate as much, but we always hold out hope, your Majesty.”
“Be that as it may, we mourn the deaths of gallant Englishmen,” Elizabeth intoned solemnly.
“But they were pirates!” Steppingstone raised his chin in righteous indignation.
“They were Englishmen none the less, and we mourn them.” The queen raised her own chin to show that no one could display righteous indignation better than she could.