Here it was one o’clock in the afternoon, and Queen Elizabeth was still in the sack at Hampton Court. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Yes, we know she was getting on in years, but surely she was not that debilitated. Echoing through the great halls were trills from long trumpets blown by snappily dressed pages. Next was the crack of a bejeweled walking stick, still nothing stirred beneath the royal bedcovers.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Make ready for Elizabeth of England, the virgin queen!” Sir Hillary Steppingstone bellowed forth in his most courtly voice.
Finally, Elizabeth popped her head out from under the sheets and satin coverlets, her graying hair all askew and her makeup shot to hell.
“Oh damn!” the old broad growled as she slid from the bed, grabbed her royal regalia and began wrestling into it.
Another gray head appeared from beneath the queenly sheets.
“Time for court? How time flies when you’re having fun,” quipped the Earl of Leicester, affectionately known as Robin by his platonic sweetheart, Elizabeth, the virgin Queen.
(Author’s Note: Oh hell, they were doing it. Everyone knew they were doing it. The only thing that kept them from making it legal was that Elizabeth didn’t want Robin to think he would be king if they married.)
“Shut up and help me dress!”
This was not an attractive sight—two slightly overweight naked bodies fumbling around with several layers of brocaded garments. Of course, they had to concentrate on Elizabeth getting her act together first. She was queen and terribly temperamental, though no one dared mention to her face that she was indeed a drama queen.
“My wig! I’m not leaving the room without my wig! Everyone still thinks I’m a redhead!”
“Hah!” Robin guffawed.
Elizabeth would have slapped him for his insolence, but they were running behind schedule. She examined herself in the long mirror and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her gown. Robin tried to place her crown on her head. She snatched it away.
“Leave the crown to me! For God’s sake put your pants on!” She cocked her head when she heard another trumpet blast. “Forget the shirt! Put on the doublet, and let’s go!”
Elizabeth led the way, bursting through the bed chamber doors and down the long hall to the reception hall. Two ladies-in-waiting were knocked on their bums by the doors but quickly recovered to scamper after the Queen and her Robin, who was still trying to button his pants. She was having problems with her headgear.
“Hell, I can’t get this crown straight!”
“Slow down, Bessie!” Robin pleaded.
The royal assemblage scooted down the hall so quickly none of them noticed that in an alcove two middle-aged gentleman, Sir Wilfred Boniface and Alfonso de Vacacabaza, were in a confidential conference.
“Shh!” Boniface held up a finger to Vacacabeza who was in the middle of a whispered discourse. As the royal entourage came closer he pushed the Spaniard behind a tapestry. After the queen and company were well down the way, Boniface returned his attention to his Spanish friend. “So. We are in agreement?”
“Si. We are in agreement,” he whispered from behind the drapery.
(Author’s Note: The tapestry’s needlework depicted Henry V’s victory at Agincourt, but who cares about that? We’re talking about sex and intrigue here.)
In the next alcove down, in fact right outside the reception hall doors, was Mistress Maria Fleurette Hortense Hildegarde de Horenhausen, an extremely tall maiden whose beauty was a mixture of the dark mystery of Spain, the sultry sauciness of France, the forthright bold chin of the Germans and a prim turn of lip of England. As the queen and others passed a muffled belch came from beneath her flowing gown.
“Bless you,” she said in a proper English accent.
“Thank you,” a male voice replied from the location of the belch.
“Por nada.” Maria’s Spanish was as impeccable as her English.
“How gracious of you,” the male voice from beneath her dress said.
“Merci.” Her French was equally impressive.
“By the way, could you skip the refried beans at dinner?”
“Nein.” And her German was most aggressive.
Once outside the reception hall, Elizabeth waved at two guards at the door to open the doors. Just as they crossed the threshold, Robin stepped on Elizabeth’s gown, sending her sprawling on the marble floor. He then fell on top of her, still trying to button his satin trousers. Courtiers, who lined the aisle from the door to the throne, unsuccessfully tried to stifle giggles. This sort of thing happened all the time in the last few years and had become a major entertainment among the upper crust of London, even more popular than the plays of William Shakespeare. This was due, in part, because the Queen’s shenanigans were sans the dense dialogue of Willie boy.
(Author’s Note: Serious historians fail to note that Elizabeth had several pet names for the playwright including, but not limited to, the following: Willie boy, her little Willie, her big fat Willie, her silly Willie and just her Bill, an ordinary guy. The last one never caught on and therefore rarely used.)
“Not now, Robin!” she ordered.
“Ah, the last button!” he exclaimed.
“Get off me!”
Robin jumped to his feet, his fingers quickly running back over the button holes to make sure they were all secured. “Oh. So sorry.”
“Wait ‘til I get my scepter. Then you’ll behave.” The queen struggled to her feet. At the last moment, Robin tried to help but she slapped his hands away. Another blast from the trumpets made her jump. “Damn, what do those horns have to be so loud? I’m not deaf, you know.”
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth composed herself and began her slow walk to the throne, smiling, waving and nodding at the court visitors of the day. She glanced at Robin. “That does it,” she whispered. “No more brunch.”
“But I love your buttered buns,” he whined.
Between gritted teeth she hissed, “Robin, if you weren’t so good between the sheets I’d have you beheaded.”
“Sorry, Bessie.”
“Dignity, we must have dignity.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
Elizabeth looked his way, her eyes drifted down to Robin’s crotch and she moaned. “There’s a big wet spot right between your legs.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Robin pulled his fur coat across his front. It was a rather ordinary coat made of a dull brown rabbit skin. Elizabeth did not approve of anyone having snappier duds than her.