Robert Nye - The Late Mr Shakespeare

However, dear friends, John Shakespeare is nothing if not adventurous, and there are few adventures he prefers to those which test his verbal resourcefulness - and Queen Elizabeth's person, as your author has presented it, would seem to offer hope of those few too.

So John agrees to the Queen's condition, and is made her man.

They walk on side by side through the Forest of Arden.

As they come out of the oak trees above Stratford what should they see but an old white sow, with a boar aboard grunting away so vehemently that the foam is flying out of his mouth and hanging on the summer breeze like spindrift.

Queen Elizabeth turns to John Shakespeare. She lays her lovely hand upon his sleeve. 'Mr Cockspur,' she says, 'Mr Cockspur, what do you make of that?'

John Shakespeare thinks for a bit, and he thinks how his monarch has forbidden him to use any low or dirty words in her presence and also how her grotto is said to be so particularly icy, and in the end he says, 'What do I make of that, majesty? Well, it's staring you in the face, isn't it? The one underneath is a kind relation of the one on top, some sort of aunt I should imagine, and her nephew isn't feeling well, and she's carrying him home.'

Queen Elizabeth looks at Mr John Shakespeare sharpish. Then a laugh begins to tickle in her throat. 'Yes, Mr Cockspur,' she says, 'I think that must be it, my gentleman.'

They wander on. And as they come into Clopton Meadows what should they see but a herd of cattle, and the bull just making himself at home on one of his favourites.

Queen Elizabeth touches John Shakespeare's wrist with a long, sharp blue fingernail. 'Well, Mr Prickspeare,' she says, 'well, Mr Prickspeare, what's that then?'

John Shakespeare doesn't have to think so much this time. He's getting the hang of the game. 'Majesty, I'll tell you exactly what it is,' he answers. 'The poor old cow is pathetically short-sighted, and she's eaten all the grass that she can see. So the bull, who looks after the cows, is just giving her a gentle shove on her way towards some fresh pasture.'

Queen Elizabeth laughs again. 'Indeed, Mr Prickspeare,' says she, 'I think you must be right, my gentleman.'

They wander on some more. And as they're coming along through the Welcombe cuckoo-flowers what should they see but a herd of horses, and a stallion busy working on a mare.

Queen Elizabeth fondles John Shakespeare's sword hilt. 'Tell me, Mr Sexpure,' she says, 'Mr Sexpure, tell me what's that then?'

'That,' says John quickly, 'is no doubt on account of the fire.'

'The fire?' says his mistress, her left eyebrow raised.

'Yes, majesty,' says John Shakespeare, and he points to a house with a blazing chimney in the Gild Pits below them. 'The stallion wants a better view of it,' he explains, 'so he's climbed up on the back of the mare, just to have a good look.'

'I do believe you're right, Mr Sexpure,' the Queen says, though she can't stop her giggling, 'I do believe you're right, my gentleman.'

They wander on. At last they arrive at those warm springs by Tiddington Mill which feed the River Avon. Secretary Burghley has recommended to his monarch that she should bathe here, for unspecified purposes, but no doubt as a prophylactic against the plague, so she offs with her clothes, kidskin girdle and all, and into the water with her high mightiness.

John Shakespeare stands watching at a respectful but attentive distance, under some willow trees which afford a green veil between him and what he should not see.

Queen Elizabeth splashes sportive in the springs.

Then she calls out very sweetly, in a little girl's voice: 'Is it hard, Mr Ramrod?'

John Shakespeare can't believe his furry pointed ears. 'Is what hard, O my sovereign liege?' says he.

'Is it hard standing under those trees, Mr Prickley, while I'm in the water?' enquires Queen Elizabeth.

'Well,' honest John answers, 'yes, majesty, I suppose it is, somewhat.'

'Some what?' asks the Queen, splashing him.

'Somewhat,' says John Shakespeare, and puts his hat over it.

Queen Elizabeth splashes about some more, and then she says softly: 'If you want to bathe with me, Mr Upstart, you had better undress yourself, hadn't you?'

'Undress myself?' John echoes foolishly.

'Strip off, my gentleman!' says the peremptory Queen.

So John Shakespeare takes off his green shirt, and his green boots, and his green breeches, and he enters the warm springs by Tiddington Mill.

As her new attendant comes into the water, Queen Elizabeth notes to herself with approval the length and apparent usefulness of his tool. Her breasts pout like pigeons. As a child she was teased and tickled, mentally and corporally rolled and spanked by her wicked step-uncle, Lord Seymour of Sudely. Times like these, she remembers it.

Now they are wading about together in the warm, clear, bubbling water, Queen Elizabeth and John Shakespeare, and it's soft and salt and lovely where they are. The Queen's mind goes flowing back. She remembers her step-aunt Parr holding her down, legs kicking, while big Seymour cut holes in her night-dress with a pair of silver scissors. So she puts her fingers to her lower lips and parts them, and she shows herself to this new man and she asks him, 'What's this then, Mr Shagbag?'

'A well,' John Shakespeare answers, as quick as you like. 'It's a wishing well, madam.'

'Yes, yes,' agrees the Queen, and she reaches down with her hands and makes a deft grab for him under the water. 'And what's this then, Mr Shakespout?' she demands. 'What's this thing between your legs here?'

'That,' says John Shakespeare, gulping, 'is called a donkey.'

'A donkey!' exclaims Queen Elizabeth with delight. 'And does your donkey have to drink then, sometimes, Mr Spigot, my gentleman?'

'He does, majesty,' answers John, as dignified as you could expect him to be, with the hands that rule all England on his creature. 'But only when he's thirsty,' he explains.

Queen Elizabeth's clever fingers move up and down the length of Mr John Shakespeare, and round and round the width of her royalty. Her one long pearl-pale hand is warming his member, while with her other long pearl-pale hand she is warming herself, and she thinks of the manhood she first felt concealed in the yellow magnificence of her father's lap, King Harry's great sceptre, and the water is warm, and the air is warm, and warm is her heart, and she sings as she plays, and she plays as she sings, and the hot springs bubble up incessantly, and the pool by Tiddington's full of good warm currents, swirling all about their naked limbs as she fingers him, and herself, and then both of them, and there's a sweet, rich scent of apricocks on the air, and purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries, and her thighs are white as wax through the clear water, and the Queen's fingers work upon him like sucking fish, and the day is warm, and the Queen's fingers pump, and the blossoms fall down, and the water frets and bubbles, and there's a smell of dewberries,* and John Shakespeare's lucky member gets bigger and bigger, swelling and lengthening under the royal command, lengthening and swelling and thickening until he is half-scared that it might burst, but the Queen's other hand is equally busy, and just as good about its business, tickling and diddling, and stirring and stretching, and preparing and opening, though she needs no lubrication, what with all the warmth and the water, and the swooning airs of summer, and her womb turned inside out, and the skylarks high above them, and the flood and the fire, and the oxslips on the bank, and the warm warm warming water, and the whispering violet currents, and so:

'O,' Queen Elizabeth wonders, 'O Mr Cockburn, Mr Cockburn, is your donkey thirsty now?'

'He is,' John Shakespeare answers, between gaspings. 'Yes, he is, madam, quite.'