Previously: England awaits the Spanish invasion. Elizabeth orders two of her young heros to Spain on a mission. Each one has a beautiful but jealous lover.

The full moon streamed broad beams through the tall windows of the Great Hall, filling the cavernous cheek bones of King Phillip who lounged on his throne as two guards escorted Maria through the massive wooden doors.  After positioning her before the King, the guards bowed and exited, their boots clicking on the marble floor.  Silence engulfed the huge room, creating a sense of eerie anxiety.

“Come closer!” Phillip commanded, his thin thrill voice ringing through the rafters.

“Si, your Majesty.”  Maria curtsied but only took one or two steps.

“Closer!”

With a determined sigh, she walked so near to the King she saw his sallow complexion, and her impulse was to step back but her better judgment advised against it.  “As you wish,” she replied in perfection Spanish compliance.

“I have a few questions for you.”  A silky intimidation clouded his tone.

“I shall try to be helpful.”

Phillip clasped his hands in front of his thin lips.  “I’ve just received some disturbing news.”

“Really?” Maria felt her heart begin to throb.

“There’s a spy in my court.”  He paused to allow the implications of this information to sink into her mind.  “And this spy is from England.”

“Really?”  Inquisition phobia limited her vocabulary.

The King leaned forward.  “Are you that spy?”

“Nein, mein herr!”  Maria was so scared she slipped into her German accent without losing a goose step.

“What!?”

Her female instincts told her to begin a delaying tactic while her brain went hay-wired trying to think of a defense.  She fluttered her dark brown eyes.

“Oh, Your Majesty!”  Her perfect Spanish dialect snapped back.  “You’re making me nervous!”

He shook a boney finger at her.  “I’ll make you more than nervous if I don’t get some answers!”

Crossing herself, Maria declared, “I swear I’m not a spy!”

“And why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you don’t trust anyone?”  Her Spanish voice became small and shy.

“No!” he barked. “Because you think that Englishwoman is gracious!”

“Gracious me.  I was just being polite.”  Maria’s right hand went to her bosom.

“Then who do you think the spy is?”  His follow-up question was so quick and on-topic that any law professor would give him high marks for harassment. 

“What makes you think I’d know something like that?”  Her eyes began to flutter again.  “I’m the ward of an ambassador.”

Phillip narrowed his beady little eyes.  “You didn’t answer my question.”

Her heart thumped like a bunny’s foot.  “Would you trust the ward of the English ambassador with such important information?”

“Of course not!”  He waved his hand to dismiss the thought.

“See?”

(Author’s note:  This part of the conversation confused Phillip very much because he didn’t know if she was saying yes in Spanish or the word see, meaning to understand, in English spoken with a Spanish accent.  Eventually he decided to jump ahead to the next point he wanted to make in his interrogation.)

“But I don’t trust anyone!”

Maria smiled, appreciating the fact she had befuddled her inquisitor.  “So you’ve said.”

“You still haven’t given me a yes or no answer to my question.”  Clearly not accustomed to losing control of a conversation, the King stood and stretched to the full extent of his puny height.

“And which question was that, Sire?” she tried to extend her advantage.

“You know very well what question!  Do you know who the spy is?”

“Do you mean know in the Biblical sense?”  Maria was getting way too filled with herself.

“I’m getting tired of your evasions.  You have until tomorrow morning to reflect on your answer.”

“Si, Sire.”

“You may leave now.”

“Gracias.”  Maria began to back up.

“And as you’re reflecting, think of one word, Senorita.”

She stopped.  “And what word is that?”

“Inquisition.”

Maria forgot protocol, turned and ran for the door, muttering in proper English, “Egad.”

The full moon streamed broad beams through the tall windows of the Great Hall, filling the cavernous cheek bones of King Phillip who lounged on his throne as two guards escorted Maria through the massive wooden doors.  After positioning her before the King, the guards bowed and exited, their boots clicking on the marble floor.  Silence engulfed the huge room, creating a sense of eerie anxiety.

“Come closer!” Phillip commanded, his thin thrill voice ringing through the rafters.

“Si, your Majesty.”  Maria curtsied but only took one or two steps.

“Closer!”

With a determined sigh, she walked so near to the King she saw his sallow complexion, and her impulse was to step back but her better judgment advised against it.  “As you wish,” she replied in perfection Spanish compliance.

“I have a few questions for you.”  A silky intimidation clouded his tone.

“I shall try to be helpful.”

Phillip clasped his hands in front of his thin lips.  “I’ve just received some disturbing news.”

“Really?” Maria felt her heart begin to throb.

“There’s a spy in my court.”  He paused to allow the implications of this information to sink into her mind.  “And this spy is from England.”

“Really?”  Inquisition phobia limited her vocabulary.

The King leaned forward.  “Are you that spy?”

“Nein, mein herr!”  Maria was so scared she slipped into her German accent without losing a goose step.

“What!?”

Her female instincts told her to begin a delaying tactic while her brain went hay-wired trying to think of a defense.  She fluttered her dark brown eyes.

“Oh, Your Majesty!”  Her perfect Spanish dialect snapped back.  “You’re making me nervous!”

He shook a boney finger at her.  “I’ll make you more than nervous if I don’t get some answers!”

Crossing herself, Maria declared, “I swear I’m not a spy!”

“And why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you don’t trust anyone?”  Her Spanish voice became small and shy.

“No!” he barked. “Because you think that Englishwoman is gracious!”

“Gracious me.  I was just being polite.”  Maria’s right hand went to her bosom.

“Then who do you think the spy is?”  His follow-up question was so quick and on-topic that any law professor would give him high marks for harassment. 

“What makes you think I’d know something like that?”  Her eyes began to flutter again.  “I’m the ward of an ambassador.”

Phillip narrowed his beady little eyes.  “You didn’t answer my question.”

Her heart thumped like a bunny’s foot.  “Would you trust the ward of the English ambassador with such important information?”

“Of course not!”  He waved his hand to dismiss the thought.

“See?”

(Author’s note:  This part of the conversation confused Phillip very much because he didn’t know if she was saying yes in Spanish or the word see, meaning to understand, in English spoken with a Spanish accent.  Eventually he decided to jump ahead to the next point he wanted to make in his interrogation.)

“But I don’t trust anyone!”

Maria smiled, appreciating the fact she had befuddled her inquisitor.  “So you’ve said.”

“You still haven’t given me a yes or no answer to my question.”  Clearly not accustomed to losing control of a conversation, the King stood and stretched to the full extent of his puny height.

“And which question was that, Sire?” she tried to extend her advantage.

“You know very well what question!  Do you know who the spy is?”

“Do you mean know in the Biblical sense?”  Maria was getting way too filled with herself.

“I’m getting tired of your evasions.  You have until tomorrow morning to reflect on your answer.”

“Si, Sire.”

“You may leave now.”

“Gracias.”  Maria began to back up.

“And as you’re reflecting, think of one word, Senorita.”

She stopped.  “And what word is that?”

“Inquisition.”

Maria forgot protocol, turned and ran for the door, muttering in proper English, “Egad.”

Previously: England awaits the Spanish invasion. Elizabeth orders two of her young heros to Spain on a mission. Each one has a beautiful but jealous lover.

King Phillip rapped his boney fingers on the mahogany council table in his private quarters.  The last person he expected the see in the Alhambra banquet hall was Lord Steppingstone, one of his key operatives in the court of Queen Elizabeth.  The King ordered his English spy never to visit Spain.  If his secret agent were caught, the outcome of the Armada invasion would be jeopardized.  He looked up when he heard the door creak open. 

Steppingstone slithered in; his shoulders were hunched in complete abeyance, and he crept toward the King.

“What are you doing here?” Phillip demanded as he stood, slamming his hand on the table.  He winced when he realized the impact sent shock waves from his fingers all the way up to his shoulders.

(Author’s note:  Historical records do not show that Lord Steppingstone crossed the English Channel in the time frame immediately before the invasion of the Spanish Armada.  However, some genealogists point out Steppingstone had a second cousin on his mother’s side who left English under mysterious circumstances in the early years of Elizabeth’s reign.  The cousin changed his English given name of Frederick to Fredo when he established a shop in northern Portugal where he unsuccessfully tried to sell bagpipes to the local musical arts community.  Fredo then turned to fishing as his vocation.  It is possible Steppingstone entered Spain by way of his second cousin’s fishing boat.) 

“Elizabeth suspects a spy in the court, and has sent someone to Spain to discover his identity.”  Steppingstone kept his eyes down.

“See!”  The king shook his aching fingers at his English agent.  “I told you Elizabeth couldn’t be trusted!”

Steppingstone bowed.  “Yes, Sire.  I agree.”

“You would, you toad,” Phillip replied with a sneer.  “What have I promised you for betraying your own country?”

“Only Wales, your Majesty.”  He bowed again.

The Spanish ruler snorted.  “You sold out cheap, if you ask me.”

“I have simple needs, Sire.” 

Steppingstone bowed again, which was getting on Phillip’s last nerve.  The King overcame an urge to slap him, only because he needed further information from the toad.  “Who is this spy Elizabeth has sent to my court to discover the identity of my spy?”

“I don’t know.”

He was in mid-bow when the King erupted, “Stop all that bowing, you idiot!”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do you think it could be Maria de Horenhausen?”

“I doubt it.”

Phillip scratched his wispy beard.  “I don’t know.  She actually had something nice to say about that Englishwoman.”

“Being polite is not necessarily a sign of treason, your Majesty.”

Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “It can be in Spain.”

***

At that very moment Maria, with Clarence under her dress, entered the Alhambra kitchen.  It was a dark, dank space, lit only by huge fireplace flames.  The cooks and the servers were too busy sneezing on the food and wiping their noses on their rancid sleeves to notice the beautiful senorita lingering around the table with stacks of breads and rolls. 

In her English accent, she whispered, “We’re here.”

“Good.  I’m famished,” came from under the folds of her elegant gown.

“Hurry.”  She furrowed her beautiful brow.  “It will look suspicious if I’m caught lingering in the kitchen.”

“I’ll grab a loaf of bread and be right back,” he assured her as he scampered from beneath her hems, crawling like a frightened cockroach around the table.

“Not a long loaf!” she admonished him with very proper English concerns for her personal comfort.  She jumped when she felt a heavy tap on her shoulder.  When she turned, Maria saw glaring at her four grim guards with nasty long spears.

“Miss de Horenhausen, his Majesty King Phillip commands your presence immediately.”  Though the commander of the small corps spoke perfect Castilian, he did have a stern German air about him.

“But I—“

“Now, Miss de Horenhausen,” he snapped.

Maria bowed and complied in her best Spanish, “Si.”

The guards surrounded her and marched out of the kitchen just as Clarence crawled back around the table.  He stopped to watch them disappear in the darkness.

“Oh drat,” Clarence muttered as he nibbled on a loaf.  He frowned at it.  “Stale.”

I was in the sixth grade when I celebrated my last Halloween.  That is to say, the last Halloween as a child who enjoyed the school festival and trick-or-treating.

                Each classroom was transformed into a special treat.  One was a haunted house, another a cake walk, a fishing pond, white elephant sale and many more, each costing a dime or quarter to participate. At the end of the evening was a variety show put on by the parents who all acted very silly.  The kids loved it.   Proceeds went to the PTA. 

                When I was selected as one of five boys to be the “spook” in a Hit the Spook with a marshmallow game I was thrilled.  My mother drove me downtown to a five-and-dime to buy a mask.  She stayed in the car while I went in to get something to protect my face from all the marshmallows that were going to be thrown at me.  When I reached the big table in the middle of the store with the Halloween masks, I froze.

                My mother had a way of criticizing every purchase I ever made.  I picked up a mask that I liked but put it back because it cost too much.  I looked for something really cheap but they looked like something a first grader would wear.  Finally I picked out a face paint kit that cost very little.  Pleased that I was going to escape my mother’s wrath for wasting money, I ran out to the car where my mother had been waiting.

                “Where have you been?”  Her tone was withering.  “I thought I was about to die in this heat.  (author’s note:  we lived in Texas which is still very hot even in the last week of October)  I thought you were going to just run in, grab something and be right back out!  How long does it take to buy a silly Halloween mask anyway?”

                I showed her the makeup kit and tried to explain how cheap it was when she interrupted me.

                “Now how is that going to protect your face from those marshmallows?  I thought the whole idea of getting a mask was to protect yourself.”

                Back home I sewed together some old sheets into what I thought looked like a ghost costume.  I use the term sewing very loosely.  I used an old treadle machine which my mother and threaded for me.  At Halloween sunset my mother told me she was too tired to drive me back to school and I would have to walk.  It wasn’t that far so I didn’t mind.

                Halfway there, however, I remembered I had not brought my money which I had carefully put aside for the past month just for spending at the festival.  It was too late to go back home to get it and be at the school on time.

                When I did arrive I found out none of the other boys had shown up so I had to be the only “spook” getting pelted by marshmallows.  It was that night that I realized I really wasn’t that popular at school.  Too many of the boys were way too thrilled in throwing marshmallows at me.  This went on for an hour.

                Finally the teacher closed down the attraction and said I could go enjoy the rest of the festival.  Only I couldn’t.  I didn’t have any money to pay to play.  I couldn’t even see the variety show.

                One woman—I can’t remember if it were a teacher or a parent—who asked me what I was dressed up as.  “Are you supposed to be a little girl?”

                “No,” I responded weakly.  “A ghost.”

                “Well, you look more like a little girl.”

                When I walked home I didn’t even feel like trick-or-tricking at the neighbors’ houses.  The bloom was off the pumpkin, so to speak.

                The next time I remember having a good time at Halloween was when I had small children and chaperoned them around trick-or-treating.  We decorated the house with fake cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns.  Now the kids are grown and the local children don’t stop by our house.  Actually, I don’t think there’s wholesale trick-or-treating anywhere, with all the scares about poison in the candy.

                Ah, but in the early years, that was fun, before the last Halloween came along.

Previously: England awaits the Spanish invasion. Elizabeth orders two of her young heros to Spain on a mission. Each one has a beautiful but jealous lover.

Ornate chandeliers spread sparkling light throughout the Alhambra dining hall.  Courtiers laughed with unleashed enthusiasm, trying to pretend Phillip didn’t have them all scared out of their wits.  In the middle of the room were Gypsy gentlemen in colorful garb and playing violins. Voluptuous Gypsy girls twirled around the room in wild abandon.  King Phillip dribbled wine from the corner of his mouth as he hooted and clapped his boney old hands.

“Minstrels!  More Minstrels!”

Maria, well aware her life depended on giving the appearance of having a good time, smiled and forced herself to giggle every few minutes.

Eventually the fiddlers and dancers finished their act, bowed to the King and trotted out of the room.  Entering next were Rodney and Alice.  He had smeared his face with a tree bark unguent to make him look swarthier and wore earrings to make him look Gypsier. Alice’s peasant blouse and short skirt looked luscious.  Rodney strummed a mandolin while Alice danced with more abandon than one would expect from an uptight English maiden.

“Mon dieu!” Maria gasped as Rodney approached the King’s table.

Phillip’s head snapped towards her.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh.  Well.  I—I—yi, yi,“ Maria sputtered, returning to her Spanish accent.

“Perhaps the young lady is not accustomed to seeing men wearing earrings,” Rodney offered in mangled Slavic tones.  “But let me assure the young lady I mean her no harm.”

Trying to hide a smile, she replied, “Oh no, it isn’t that.  It’s just that—I’ve never seen such a lovely mandolin.  I have a special fondness for mandolins.”

“Oh really?”  Phillip’s eyebrows rose in anticipation.  “I must show you my private collection of mandolins.”

“When?” she asked.

“As soon as I can get one.”

“Dirty old man,” emanated from beneath Maria’s dress.

She firmly knocked her knees together.

“Ouch.”

“And now, minstrel, regale us with a tune.”  Phillip leaned over to whisper to Maria, “I hope it has dirty lyrics.”

Rodney’s face went blank for a moment until Alice bumped him with her hip.  “As you wish, your Majesty.”  He began strumming clumsily and sang in a mish-mash of a Slavic accent.  “Oh, love with a Spanish lady can be a dangerous thing….”

Alice resumed her twirling and bumped into the table right in front of Phillip who ogled her and licked his lips.  Frightened she spun toward the center of the room.

“They love you for a while and then toss you aside….”

Never having a keen sense of direction, Alice bumped into the head table again, this time in front of Maria.  Only a moment passed before they recognized each other, and their eyes blazed with indignation.

“You!” Alice hissed.

“What are you doing here?”  Maria slipped into her German accent.

Alice did not answer but rather chose to spin away.

“Their dancing black eyes can enthrall you, and their red lips can maul you….”

Losing her balance, Alice fell and slid under the royal table, winding up face to face with Clarence under Maria’s gown.

“Clarence!”

“I beg your pardon?  I don’t believe I’ve made the acquaintance of any maidens of the Gypsy persuasion.”

(Author’s note:  History correctly tells us the ethnic group generally labelled Gypsy has a long honorable cultural tradition.  We acknowledge that this group has been treated unfairly and cruelly under various despotic regimes.  Having given due respect, we remind readers this is a burlesque satire and not to be taken seriously.)

“Clarence!  It’s me!  “Alice!”

“Alice!”

“What are you up to?”

Clarence glanced upward, formulating a reply, but before he could reply, Rodney grabbed Alice by her feet and yanked her back onto the open floor.  As he swished around here, Rodney finished his song.

“Yes, love with a Spanish lady can be a dangerous thing.”

Rodney bowed to the applause, but Alice stormed out of the banquet hall in a huff.

“What a sad song,” Maria commented with a sigh.

“Yeah, real sad,” Phillip added.  “No dirty lyrics.”

“Surely you don’t believe that of Spanish ladies, do you, minstrel?” Maria asked.

“I don’t know.”  Rodney’s large soulful eyes pleaded with her.

“Where did that little Gypsy dancer go?”  The King craned his head to look around the hall.  “She was a real looker.”

“Sometimes a person doesn’t know who to trust.”  Rodney’s face went puppy dog on her.

“You have nothing to fear from Spanish ladies,” she replied with an affectionate wink.

“Bah!  I never trust Spanish ladies!” Phillip announced.

Fluttering her black lace fan, she concentrated on Rodney and ignored the King. Maria added, “You have nothing to fear from this Spanish lady.”

“Of course,” the King continued, “I don’t trust any woman, no matter what country she’s from.”  

Maria extended her hand to Rodney and pursed her lips.  “Feel free to call on me for any assistance.”

“Come to think of it,” Phillip revealed, mostly to himself, “I don’t trust anyone, male or female.”

“Thank you.”  Grinning, Rodney bowed to kiss her pretty fingers.  “I will.”

“Oh hell, there are times I don’t even trust myself.” 

A familiar cough from the back of the hall broke his soliloquy.  When he looked up he saw Steppingstone peeking in the door, his hand covering his mouth. 

“I’d love to hear another song,” Maria purred.

“No!” Phillip erupted.

“Does my singing offend you, scum—I mean, Sire?” Rodney asked.

“No, no.  It’s just—just I’ve got affairs of state to attend to.  Excuse me.”  With that, the King scurried out of the hall, followed by a small crowd of sycophants.

Maria and Rodney did not notice, because they were too busy making love with their eyes.

Previously: England awaits the Spanish invasion. Elizabeth orders two of her young heros to Spain on a mission. Each one has a beautiful but jealous lover.

King Phillip’s private office at the Alhambra was cluttered with charts and maps.  The spindly, balding monarch, dressed properly in black with only the slightest hint of ancient white lace peeking from his sleeves and collar, sat drumming his boney fingers on a long ebony table as lords, ministers and generals chattered about the impending invasion of England by their invincible Armada.  Vacacabeza returned just that morning from the British court with his comely ward Maria.  He sat like a cat at Phillip’s side, ready to pounce on any opportunity to purr and rub his head against the King’s sleeve.  Phillip rolled his eyes in boredom. A general—which one the King didn’t know because the current turnover of military commanders was so brisk the old ruler could not keep up with them—droned on, listing a massive supplies for the invasion which they said would change the course of history.

“…four hundred thirty-one guns, fourteen thousand barrels of wine—“

“—Fourteen thousand barrels of wine?” Phillip interrupted.  “Where the hell are they going, an invasion or an orgy?”

“An invasion, Sire,” Vacacabeza explained in sycophantic tones that made the King shudder.

“Very well.”  He paused to consider having his minister burned at the stake that afternoon just so he wouldn’t have to listen to his mewling mouth, but decided against it.  He needed all the firewood available for the impending war.  “Proceed.”

The general continued in his dreadful monotone, “Eleven million pounds of biscuits—“

A commotion in the courtyard below drew Phillip’s attention.  He heard tambourines clanging, mandolins strumming and people laughing and singing.  Didn’t they know they were in Spain, and the King took a dim view of happiness?  With great difficulty, he stood and tottered over to the window. 

“What’s going on down there?” he asked.

Individuals costumed in every color of the rainbow jumped from equally festooned wagons, providing a spontaneous concert for the gathering crowd.

Vacacabeza hurried to Phillip’s side and peered over the old man’s hunched shoulder.  “Gypsies, Sire.  They’re dancing, singing—“

“I can see that,” the King interrupted in a display of irritable bowel syndrome.  “Who let them in?”

“You did, Sire, to entertain at the banquet tonight.”

“Have them entertain at the banquet tonight?”  Phillip hated being old.  His memory was shot.

“Yes, Sire.”

A rare licentious smile appeared as he licked his lips.  “I hope they know songs with dirty lyrics.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Phillip looked out the window again, scanning the crowd to spot some beautiful maidens.  His eyes focused on Maria who was walking through the crowd.  Every few steps she stumbled a bit.

“I see your ward returned with you.  Good.”

“Yes, Sire.  She does have a well-developed personality, doesn’t she?”

Phillip frowned as he watched Maria stagger again.  “Seems a bit awkward of late, though.  Like she’s walking with a pig between her legs.”

“No, Sire, I hadn’t.”

“Well, that will all change when she gets something else between her legs, eh?”  The King laughed, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, Sire.”  Vacacabeza’s eyes widened when he realized what his sovereign had just said.  “What, Sire?”

“Me, sir,” Phillip replied.

“You, Sire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, Sire!”

“What, sir?”

“Oh, Sire.”  Vacacabeza’s hand went to his throat.  “Sure, sir—I mean, Sire.”

“Tell her to meet me in the garden in an hour,” Phillip ordered, giving his ambassador a wary once-over.

Vacacabeza bowed, his nose almost toughing his knee.  “Yes, Sire.”

“And be sure to keep the gardener out!”  The King’s eyes twinkled in anticipation of sinning.

Exactly one hour later Phillip paced among the rose bushes when Maria appeared, still walking like she had a pig between her legs.   He could not help but rush toward her.

“Ah!  My dear!  Come closer so I can see if the damp climate of England spoiled your beauty.”

“As you wish, Sire.”  Maria was smart.  She knew to use only the Spanish accent around the King, although it did take quite a bit of concentration.  Stopping in front of Phillip, she curtsied, bending over enough to allow her sovereign to examine her elegant décolletage.

“Just as beautiful as ever.”  He took her hand and patted it.  “Tell me, how did you endure your sojourn on that accursed isle?”

“I enjoyed it very much, your Majesty.”

Phillip raised a thin gray eyebrow.  “I shall have my physician bleed you.  You must be ill.”

Startled by the King’s remark, Maria pulled her hand away, taking a step backwards, right into a rose bush.  A thorny branch found its way under her skirt, which resulted in a muffled cry emanating from between her legs.  She tried to pretend she didn’t hear it which was difficult because the unseen force under her dress moved away from the rose bush, dragging her along.  Unfortunately, the unseen force careened into another rose bush which resulted into tortured moan.

“My dear young lady, it appears as though you are about to suffer an emotional breakdown.”  He paused to allow his indignation to reach its highest righteous level.  “Those damn English!”

“Oh no, your Majesty, I feel just fine.  And everyone in England treated me warmly.”

The unseen force jerked her back in the other direction.  Maria smiled with grace and concentrated on pleasing the King of Spain.

“Even that Englishwoman?” he asked. Contempt curdled each vowel.

“You mean Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen?”

“Hah!” Phillip spat in derision.  “That’s a laugh.  She sleeps around with everyone else but refuses to marry me.  After all, I am her former brother-in-law.”

 Maria stepped toward Phillip to escape the clutches of the rose bush branches.  A soft sigh emanated from below.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, it is.  I married her sister.  Ugh.  What a dried up old prune.”

“Oh, I know that part is true.  What I doubt is that Elizabeth, as you put it, sleeps around.”

He narrowed his eyes and gave her a glare worthy of the Inquisition.  “Are you sure you haven’t changed your loyalties?”

“Sire!  I am the ward of one of your ambassadors!”

“I suppose so.  But I can’t help but think you’re up to something.”

Maria adjusted her dress and gave the King her most sincere doe-eyed face.  “No, your Majesty.  I’m not up to anything.”

Phillip took her hand and walked her out of the garden.  “Good.  I want you by my side at the banquet tonight.  Gypsies will be singing songs with dirty lyrics!”

“Oh no!” a muffled voice called out.  “More beans!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Maria blushed.  “Nothing, your Majesty.  Just a small case of gas.”