Ladies in Waiting by Laura L. Sullivan Page A

The king is mine, and I rule beside him. He may swive wherever he pleases. I know men’s ways, which your silly queen does not, the jealous trull. Let him sample a bit of coney when he hungers. He’ll always return to my arms, and my legs, and my . . .”
    At this point Zabby had walked off. “Don’t cross me, miss!” Castlemaine hissed behind her.
     
    They were to proceed by barge from Hampton Court to Whitehall. Charles loved boats, and though he preferred a swift, sleek yacht on the channel, he wouldn’t turn up his nose at a stately barge ride along the sluggish Thames. It allowed the court to show a great deal of pomp, to be fully on display, without being within touching distance of the populace. “Support me, but not with thine own dirty hands” was the credo of most of the nobles, and though a few rakes enjoyed slumming, most had nothing but contempt for anyone below a baron. Still, they all thrived on admiration, and Charles knew the most important role for a king is symbolic. The people love a figurehead on parade.
    Today they got their monarchs twice over, the false and the true. First came a grand pageant, two gilded barges with enameled swan wings, each bearing a royal tableau. On one, the king’s champion sat enthroned, in a paste crown with a mock orb and scepter, an overblown caricature of kingliness, with purple wool robes and tufts of fleece dipped in ink, making, from a distance, a convincing show of royal velvet and ermine. Around him stood faux courtiers in exaggeratedly heroic poses. At the four corners were men holding symbols of Charles’s reign—a brandished sword for military might, an oversize sextant for overseas trade, a pair of scales for justice (properly ironic, for they tilted crazily with each oar stroke, and never balanced). At the last corner stood a seasick man—the symbol of commerce—tossing coins into the crowd. So great was his misery that hardly any money made it to shore. The scavenging mudlarks—children who lived by salvaging the scraps of coal and rope that fell into the Thames—would reap the benefits come low tide.
    The queen had her own proxy. Perched on a filigreed throne was a lady more likely than the true queen to please the populace with her looks, though at least they chose a girl with dark hair. She was the daughter of one of the king’s privateers, those quasi pirates with a royal charter to pillage England’s enemies on the high seas, to burn and rape and rob, so long as they turned over a percentage of their plunder to the Crown.
    The maids of honor watched the panoply from an upper window—it would be another hour at least before the real queen progressed, with a fraction of the fanfare.
    “They do say he’ll bed the mock queen tonight,” said Simona Cary, a luscious brunette who had so far managed to safeguard her reputation by sacrificing that of others.
    Winifred Wells made an unladylike noise. She was said to have the carriage of a goddess and the countenance of a drowsy sheep; without possessing beauty, she held herself as if she did, and thus convinced everyone but females near her own age. She made it no secret that Charles had summoned her several times since his marriage. Like many ladies of the court, she did not believe that a bout with the king would sully her name.
    “What do you say to that, Zabby?” Simona persisted. “Do you mind sharing his affections? Or if not his affections, at least his pillicock.”
    “Here, Simona, you have a bow coming loose in the back,” Beth said, and jabbed the unsuspecting girl with a pin as she pretended to adjust it.
    “We all serve the king,” Eliza said blandly as Simona, squealing, whirled to look for blood and finally ran away to make herself perfect before being on display.
    Winifred leaned her elbows on the sill and watched the mock king float slowly away to roaring cheers. “My father was loyal to the first Charles, and did his best to die for this one in the war.” She shrugged.