LITMIR.BIZ

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they quaked in their shoes and rested uneasily in their beds, but not more uneasily than I did, for I knew that I must with good cause fear for my life when a dagger or a poisoned cup could so easily rid them of these worries. There was even some talk of marrying me off to some foreign prince to rid the realm of the nuisance that was Catholic Mary.

      Around this time a rather strange individual, a tall, shapely-limbed, fine-figured man with a long, auburn beard, dressed in a rainbow of silken fool’s motley, with gaily coloured ribbons tied in his bushy beard so that it seemed a nest of bows and silken streamers, intruded – mercifully briefly, but nonetheless disturbingly, upon my life.

      It was my custom to take a daily walk whenever the weather was fine and circumstances permitted. I started this when I first became a woman; I found that it helped ease the cramps and pains of my monthly affliction, and from there it evolved into a habit, which I particularly delighted in whenever I was residing in the country. It was on one of these outings, when I and two of my ladies were on our way to visit a poor family I had taken an interest in, and bring them a basket of foodstuffs, and some blankets and clothing, when this man of mystery first made his presence known.

      Suddenly a boisterous, but I must admit very fine, baritone voice boomed out of nowhere, shattering the quietude of the countryside, startling the birds, and nearly causing me to jump out of my skin and drop my basket. My heart beat at an alarming rate, and I pressed my hand over it as the mysterious voice belted out with great gusto:

      I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,

      I gave her Sack and Sherry;

      I kist her once and I kist her twice,

      And we were wondrous merry!

      I gave her Beads and Bracelets fine,

      I gave her Gold down derry.

      I thought she was afear’d till she stroked my Beard

      And we were wondrous merry!

      Merry my Heart, merry my Cock,

      Merry my Spright.

      Merry my hey down derry.

      I kist her once and I kist her twice,

      And we were wondrous merry!

      Then a tall motley-clad man sprang out from behind a flowering bush, with a basket of what appeared to be little golden cakes in one hand and a large cork-stoppered green flagon in the other, or so said my ladies, Susan Clarencieux and Jane Dormer. Being extremely short-sighted, I could never discern anything not directly before my face, and this bizarre character was always a rainbow-coloured blur to me; I never saw him close enough to discern his features.

      Leaping from behind the bush, with his cakes and ale in hand, he began to merrily give chase, skipping and prancing after us, loudly singing all the while, but never presuming to actually catch up with and accost us. Sometimes he would pause and break into a wild wanton jig, throwing back his head and laughing, kicking his legs up high, or taking a honey cake from his basket and throwing it at me, though I leapt back from them as though they were cakes of cow dung. I didn’t know whether to be flattered, frightened, or amused, and Susan and Jane and I quickened our pace in consequence and hurried onward on our errand of mercy, though not, I must admit, without looking back often over our shoulders to track the fool’s progress.

      When we departed after dispensing alms and aid to that poor family, enjoining them to “always trust and fear God” as we went out, he sprang from behind a tree and was there to chase us all the way back to Hunsdon in the same eccentric manner, singing, skipping, prancing, dancing, throwing cakes, and going through many loud repetitions of that ribald song until we were safely behind closed doors again.

      After that I never knew when he might appear, always trailing after me but never daring catch me, singing that increasingly irritating song and flourishing a basket of cakes and a flagon of ale. Sometimes as I sat reading or sewing, a lone honey cake would fly through the open window and land on my open book or lap. And he began to leave me gifts of cakes and ale in all manner of places. One morning I awoke and swung my feet over the side of my bed only to have my bare toes sink into a platter of warm, moist honey cakes, sticky with drizzled honey, that gave every sign of being fresh from the oven. I found them in my pew at chapel, upon my desk, on my favourite garden bench, and even in the privy as if I might wish to partake of them while I eased my body of its waste, and once as I climbed into my coach I almost sat down upon a platter. And even, most alarmingly, I awoke some mornings to find them beside my head on the pillow. Another time when I prepared to take my bath I found the tub filled with ale instead of water with light golden honey cakes bobbing in it while that voice belted out that nerve-grating song outside the window.

      Then, one night I was awakened from a sound sleep by an anguished male voice crying out, “I can’t stand it any more – I want to taste your honey cake!” as a head thrust beneath my bedcovers and a pair of strong masculine hands closed round my ankles and tried to spread wide my legs. I struggled free and ran screaming, in my bare feet and nightgown, down the stairs to the Great Hall.

      “There is a man in my room!” I shouted as my guards and various servants swarmed around me. “He …” I paused suddenly, casting my eyes down and lowering my voice as I felt the heat of shame burn my face. I hugged my arms tight over my breasts, in that moment intensely aware that I was naked beneath my nightgown. “He … attempted indecencies upon my person!” I at last blurted out as I burst into tears and fell into Susan’s arms as Jane hastily brought a cloak to drape about my shoulders.

      My guards raced upstairs to investigate and found my bedcovers upon the floor and a number of honey cakes arranged in the shape of a heart upon the white linen sheet, the outline filled in with red rose petals. And upon the table beside my bed, lit by a pair of rose-perfumed candles tinted the most delicate shade of pink, were a flagon of ale and two golden goblets adorned with a rich, glittering pattern of garnet hearts and diamond lovers’ knots. But of the intruder there was no sign.

      Returning to my room on the heels of my guards, with Susan and Jane keeping close on either side of me, I went to the window and squinted out into the dark night. And there below me that familiar voice boomed out that annoyingly familiar bawdy tavern tune again.

      I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,

      I gave her Sack and Sherry;

      I kist her once and I kist her twice,

      And we were wondrous merry!

      I gave her Beads and Bracelets fine,

      I gave her Gold down derry.

      I thought she was afear’d till she stroked my Beard

      And we were wondrous merry!

      Merry my Heart, merry my Cock,

      Merry my Spright.

      Merry my hey down derry.

      I kist her once and I kist her twice,

      And we were wondrous merry!

      “Unleash the hounds!” I ordered, bristling with outrage. But he merely laughed at me, throwing back his head as he broke into a jig, kicking his legs up high and blowing kisses to me, before he had to flee with a bevy of barking dogs at his heels. After that night, I never saw him again.

      Some weeks later the Spanish Ambassador came to dine with me. He told me he had heard that the Lord Protector’s brother, the Lord Admiral, Sir Thomas Seymour, had petitioned the Council for my hand in marriage, and that he had already most presumptuously begun to woo me until he was ordered by his brother to desist as neither of them was meant to marry a king’s daughter.

      “If such is true, I know nothing about it,” I answered. “As for his courting me, I have only seen the man once or perhaps twice at court celebrations, and I have never spoken a word to him in my life.”

      Later that evening as she helped me to undress, my faithful Susan ventured to inform me, in the most deferential terms of course, that such was not exactly the case, and that I had seen Thomas Seymour several times in the guise of that mad fool stranger

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