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.

Maria continued her sprint to safety until she reached the end of the long marble hallway which opened onto a broad balcony. Gasping, she clung to the railing, looking over the manicured gardens of the Alhambra.    By the time she began to feel calm, she felt strong arms wrap around her waist.

“Darling!”

A frightened whimper escaped her lips as the arms spun her around.  Maria smiled with relief when she saw Rodney, still dressed as Gypsy with a Gypsy-style smile on his lips.  She kissed him.  She would have run her fingers through his curly black hair but a colorful scarf covered his head.

“Dearest!” she murmured in his ear.

“I’ve missed you so.”  He tried to go in for another kiss but, Maria stepped away.

“Have you?”  Her tone took on a definite Germanic interrogative style.

“Why, of course.”

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else?”  This question had more of an icy English inflection.

Rodney’s eyes went wide with innocence.  “Only Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth!”  Maria put her hands on her hips.  “Aha!  So there is another woman!”  After a pause she added, “Elizabeth who?”

“Why, Queen Elizabeth, of course.”

“Oh.  Of course.”  She giggled like a proper English schoolgirl.  “How silly of me.”

“Am I wrong, or do you think I’m seeing another woman?”

“Well, are you?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Maria cocked her head and returned to her Spanish inquisitive tone.  “Why did you answer my question with a question?”

Befuddled, poor Rodney muttered, “Have I given you any reason to doubt my love?”

“You did it again!”

Taking her back into his muscled manly arms, he gazed into her eyes.  “Believe this.  Until the day I die there shall be no other woman for me.  I love you and only you.”

***

Meanwhile, in another long hall of the Alhambra, Clarence crept along, trying to stay hidden in the shadows.  Without warning, a door swung open hitting him square in the forehead.  After he shook his head Clarence saw Lord Steppingstone standing before him with the most startled expression on his face.

“Clarence Flippertigibbit!”

“Lord Steppingstone!”

Flustered, Steppingstone stumbled about with his words before he was able to blurt out, “What are you doing here?”

Clarence lifted his tiny but well chiseled chin.  “I might ask the same of you.”

“Why, I’m here trying to find out the identity of the traitor in Elizabeth’s court, of course.”

“Well, that’s what I’m doing here too.”  Clarence looked at the lord askance, not quite believing him.

Steppingstone rubbed his hand across his lips.  “Um, have you had any luck?”

“None so far….”  Clarence puffed out his chest and stood toe to toe with the lord trying to be intimidating.  “But I’m not giving up until I have the rascal in my grasp.”

Being a toad, as King Phillip called him, Steppingstone took a minor step back.  “Then we shall work together.”

“Very good.”  The young man still had his doubts but shook hands with the lord.  He regretted it at once because Steppingstone’s grip felt like a wet dishtowel.

“By the way,” the lord added as he withdrew his hand, “how have you escaped capture?”

“Well, you might say I’m staying under wraps.”  He absently wiped his hand on his breeches, as though to dry it.  “And yourself?”

“Oh.  Well.”  He forced a weak smile.  “I’ve inside help.”

“Ah.  It’s best not to reveal operatives, right?”

“Um, correct.  I think it best if we separate.”

“I agree.”  The bastard’s lying to me, Clarence told himself, as he turned away.  Going down another hall and descending a broad staircase, he found himself in the moonlit garden.

By mere happenstance, he tripped by the large water fountain and landed on the ground next to a dark figure. 

“Clarence?” a small feminine voice whispered.

He squinted, trying to focus his eyes in the shadows.  He recognized the petite Gypsy dancer from the dining hall earlier in the evening and realized it wasn’t a Gypsy at all but his own beloved sweetheart.

“Alice!  My darling!”

They clutched each other like two Chihuahuas in heat.  When their passionate moans became too loud, a female voice with a pronounced French accent rang out from one of the upper chambers which opened on to the balcony overlooking the garden.

“Would someone throw some water on those two dogs?  I kissing my boyfriend here!”

The outburst broke the spell and the couple sat up, breathing deeply.

“Alice!  When did you decide on dancing career?  And in King Phillip’s court!”

“I am not a dancer!” she protested.

“You can say that again,” he mumbled, hoping she did not understand him.

“I’m here to check—“she stopped to amend her statement—“to help you.”

Clarence hugged his beloved.  “But that’s dangerous!”

She stiffened.  “It’s also dangerous to stay home while your fiancé spends his time among the dark-eyed beauties of Spain.”

“Surely you jest.”  He tried comforting her again.  “You know you’re the only one for me.”

“Well, sometimes I wonder.”  She failed to hide the suspicion which tinged her voice.

“You cut me to the quick, darling.”  Clarence realized he was sounding a bit whiney, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m sorry, Clarence.”  The whining seemed to have had a positive effect on her, however.  “It’s just that I love you so.  I suppose I’m being a silly goose.”

“And I love you all the more for it.”  He maneuvered her in for another kiss.

They paused before they became too noisy and looked up at the full moon.

“Look, Clarence darling, the moon is shining for our love and our love alone.”

***

On the balcony, Maria and Rodney came up for air from their kissing marathon.  She sighed and lay her head on his chest, which was as dense as his shoulders.  He looked up at the full moon.

“Look, Maria, the moon is so big and pretty.”

She grabbed his head with her strong hands and pulled it down to her face.  “And it shines only for us.”

My wife, son and I celebrated Thanksgiving with the new couple in the neighborhood. We had not seen much of the husband, but the wife seemed very friendly, but there was a certain uneasiness about her that I could not pinpoint.
For one thing, she insisted we arrive after sunset. By this time most people have had their dinner, taken a nap, awakened and refreshed, ready to watch football and eat leftovers.
We assumed that the time of the dinner was dictated by some Slavic tradition. The wife had an almost indiscernible accent from some distant corner of the Balkans.
The Thanksgiving turkey itself was more the size of a Cornish hen, obviously a serving for one. Even more peculiar, our hostess grabbed that little chicken carcass and chomped into it with vigor. She didn’t even have a bowl of cranberries on the side for us to nibble on.
The door creaked open, and standing there—back lit like a character from a Steven Spielberg movie—was her husband. He was tall, gaunt, wan and handsome in a dead movie star sort of way.
Now the reason for the surprise dinner invitation was evident—we were not invited to eat a dinner. We were invited to be eaten for dinner.
The impact of this revelation was lost on my wife. She realized there was no food on the table except for the Cornish hen which at this point was—for all intents and purposes only bones suitable for a boiling brine to become a savory broth. She had adjourned to the kitchen where she poked around the refrigerator for something else to eat.
My son, who is a long-time corrections officer, wasted no time in breaking apart a dining room chair to create a wooden stake to drive into our host’s heart. This is one of his finer traits. He’s very good at disarming potential threats. However, most women do not find this talent very romantic so therefore he is still single.
Somehow we made it to the roof where our host was most intent on stalking me. After eluding him a few times, I noticed that our host had a problem adjust his direction rapidly. Taking this into account, I ran to the edge of the roof where my son stood with his stake.
I made an abrupt turn left, and our host ran straight into my son’s stake. With a loud gasp, he fell off the roof and turned into a million vampire particles before he reached the front lawn.
By the time my son and I returned to the dining room, my wife was feeding our hostess from a bowl of cranberries she had found in the refrigerator. She had been a probation officer so grief counseling was part of her job training.
I must admit being aghast when I heard my wife pitching our son to be our hostess’s next husband. I’ve never approved of marriage on the rebound. Also, I questioned the wisdom of our son’s marriage to a woman who just a few minutes ago offered him up to her now deceased husband as Thanksgiving dinner.
As a final note, as you may have guessed, this entire encounter had been one of my overly vivid dreams the night before Thanksgiving. We actually spent Thanksgiving dinner with a very sweet couple who gave us a pot of purple orchids. Our son, as usual, had to spend the holiday working at the prison.
Bah humbug.

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.”

Having nothing better to do, I went through some old files and found this nostalgia piece I wrote in the early 1970s, about 50 years:

It was the world back then. A garden to be tilled, a home for rabbits and chickens and dogs. Oh yes, cats too.
That backyard was long and wider than I had the breath to run along its edges. But, of course, I was always a puny kid.
Half of it for many years was a garden—corn in the back, then okra, many rows of green beans, potatoes and tomatoes, then radishes, cabbage and onions. Sometimes a few petunias if my mother was in the mood. They made adequate trumpets, I recall.
To keep the garden alive during those scorching, drought-tinged Texas summers of the mid-fifties, my father and mother put the garden house at the end of a row and let it run.
Much to their chagrin, I often decided to dam up the works and create a lake, with branches seeping from one row to another. This also provided plenty of mud for various products like mud pies. It also substituted for blood for my re-enactment of the Saturday war movie.
Then my mother turned the hose on me before she allowed me in the house.
But the garden isn’t there anymore. Not since my mother died.
The other half of the yard was for play—with my dogs. I always had a couple; then when one was run over and killed—which seemed altogether too common an occurrence—I still had one.
They would chase me, nipping at my heels, until I would fall down and cover my head. They would lick at my neck and I would squeal with delight.
I learned the facts of life from the cats. Kittens were as common as the rain wasn’t in those days. I can think of no better education than the excitement of gingerly crawling under the house, softly calling out the mother cat’s name and have her return with a pleasant meow. As I crawled closer, she would proudly roll over to show me her babies, their eyes still closed. If I dared pick them up too much they would not be there the next day. The mother would move them.
My father built a hutch in the back and tried raising rabbits once. But that was a futile venture because he wanted to eat them, and I wanted them as pets. Bantam chickens were safer, we both agreed only to eat the eggs. One day, however, I came home to find dead chickens over all the yard. One of the dogs acted sheepishly. I cried and then decided to grant amnesty. The law of the backyard was based on mercy.
And the playhouse. I could never forget that. It began as one small room with tin Royal Crown Cola signs for sides and roof. That didn’t seem large enough so I added another room and a wooden roof and a second floor.
To celebrate the expansion I invited a friend over to spend the night in the house with my brother and me. We watched “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein” and drank a concoction of mine made of Nehi orange, grape and strawberry and Upper Ten.
Then we ventured out for the night. The sky was clear and the moon full. It was joyous. We danced and frolicked in our underwear at midnight. My friend’s shorts and monkeys on them. I teased him, but secretly I was envious.
Somehow two rooms and a second floor didn’t seem enough. I doubled the bottom, had more lumber for roofing and even had a perch on top of the second floor.
A few years later my interest waned, and my father wanted me to tear it down, but I didn’t have the heart. He relented and tore it down himself. At one point he pushed apart two main posts and bore a strange resemblance to Sampson, I thought.
Now I come home occasionally and the yard has changed. As I said, there is no garden. It is now an expanse of grass. I only vaguely spot where the rabbit hutch and the wonderful playhouse sat.
The only things that are the same are the honeysuckle vines and mimosa trees I planted for my mother many years ago. The trees are quite stout now.
It makes me feel old.
The smell of the honeysuckle is still sweet and brings back the memories, though. I have honeysuckle growing outside the door of the home I share with my wife and son. It makes me feel good.
I want a large yard for my son to have adventures in, to learn responsibility in, a nice place to grow up.
But this yard, for all the world events that transpired within its reaches, seems so small now.

Fifty years later, I have to admit the yard was not always that wonderful. In fact, some memories are best kept where they belong—in the past. And as for the yard seeming so small, to this old man the world has grown much too large.