Seven Will Out: A Renaissance Revel by JoAnn Spears

Excerpt from Seven Will Out: Chapter Fourteen, Menagerie and Query

My two welcoming companions were not, as on my last visit, those two medieval

beauties, Margaret Beaufort and Elizabeth of York, grandmother and mother of Henry VIII.

On my last stay here, I had learned that this was a strictly ladies-only domicile. That is

why I rapidly concluded that my companions, who were a couple of dogs, were likely also a

couple of bitches. This is not as rancorous a statement as you may think.

You see, my stirring about had agitated two toy-size dogs that had been lying at the foot

of the bed, setting them to romping and frolicking around. I settled them down a bit and then

zeroed in for a closer look at my strange bedfellows.

One of them I had met before. I had not gotten its name, but I knew it to be the terrier that

had belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots, at the time of her death. Said pup had attended Mary’s

execution, hidden under her skirts; it barked piteously as it emerged, bloodstained, unable to

decide whether to stay with the decapitated queen’s body or with her head. Eventually it

mourned itself to death. My understanding had been that, after my last visit here, the Tudor

denizens of this celestial way station would have vacated the premises for good. But if this

dog—and another to boot— were present here, then likely the queen of Scots was again, or

perhaps still, in residence. And heaven knew who else.

I looked a little closer at the other dog to try to figure out what, or at least, whose, it was.

It appeared to be a sweet little bichon frise, and it looked back at me with head atilt and tail

wagging.

“Por quoi!” a female voice called from without the room, and the little bichon perked up

its ears.

“Por quoi to you too!” I sang out, playing for time as I tried to recall some of my high

school French. As I did, I realized that I had just unintentionally given someone “what for.” I

hoped this wouldn’t mean that my stay here this time was going to start off with me giving a bad

impression. Wanting to take no chances, I got out of bed and began to smooth, as best I could,

the wrinkles from my nightdress. As I did so, the person outside my room, getting closer by the

sound of her voice, riposted my comment.

“Your French accent is execrable, Dolly!”

I wondered fleetingly if Marie Antoinette was in residence, but this was not the case. The

lady who eventually rounded the doorway and entered my room was someone I had met before.

She sported the Renaissance equivalent of a hippie-chick outfit that had seen better days. A

parrot was circling above her in a holding pattern, and she was trailed by several feline friends

whose orange calico markings resembled her own ginger coloring.

I knew whose tragic and fascinating presence I was in.