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.'
'O,' Queen Elizabeth expostulates, 'O Mr Frigspear, Mr Frigspear, and would he like a drink then? A little drink in my well, my gentleman?'
'He would,' croaks John Shakespeare. 'He would enjoy that, madam, I believe.'
'Then come in, darling donkey,' Queen Elizabeth invites. 'Only don't go in too deep or you'll drown and then be nothing, my poor thing.'
The Queen means, of course, that the extreme glacial coldness of her fissure will be the death of the interesting beast, and she is a-weary of her men's men dying on her. But as for sturdy John Shakespeare, like the angel of the Apocalypse he now has one foot on the known and the other on the unknown, and he's past counsel or caring. He can't hold anything back now, so he enters her quick, smooth, and hard.
Reader, all her long life Queen Elizabeth delighted in cerebral adoration, and the stronger the hint of corporal madness the more she delighted in it.
But now it is something else that pleases her.
Now it is something immediate.
Now it is something hard and very simple.
She forgets old Harry's lap and bad Seymour's fingers. She has no room for memory any more.
John Shakespeare has her. The father of William Shakespeare is up her. And the larks sing, and the choughs rise, and the wild thyme blows, and a donkey is braying over by Clopton Bridge, and the warming water, and the circling currents, and the bubbling springs, and the midsummer morning, and the weeping willows, and the great summer sun, and all the sweet blandishments and entreaties of all these little natural miracles make Elizabeth Tudor open her white royal legs wider and wider, make the Queen of England open her legs as she has never opened them before for any other man, so that John Shakespeare flows in, and William Shakespeare flows in, and the water flows in, and the warm flows in, and England flows in, and the world flows in, and it is all flowing warm flowing and flowing flowing warm until--