Free Royal Harlot by Susan Holloway Scott Page A

funeral of James I saw remarkable similarities; to younger folk such as I, the whole affair seemed no more than a mockery of beliefs both Puritan and Royalist, with everything jumbled together in an unholy mess of symbolism.
    Though it was commonly understood that Cromwell’s body had been buried by his family soon after his death, a cunningly wrought effigy now took the place of his rotting corpse. Crowned and dressed in royal robes with an orb and scepter tucked alongside, this effigy was borne through the streets on a bier drawn by six horses with plumes atop their heads. A lengthy procession of distinguished mourners followed, from diplomats in the elegant mourning of foreign courts, to great lords, country mayors, and generals, to a cluster of nicely wailing common women.
    I stood on one side of the Strand beside Roger, watching the procession from behind the special draped railings as it passed us by with excruciating slowness. Of course we hadn’t been among those to receive tickets to participate, and a good thing, for they’d had to gather at Somerset House by eight in the morning. Huddling in the blustery cold as long as we did was more than enough for me, and more than enough, too, to see the gaudy show of plumed horses, drummers, banners, and trumpeters on its way to the abbey.
    True, we were not sympathetic mourners, but there to ogle from curiosity more than anything else. But it did seem to me that the mood of the crowd in general was closer to ours than to the wooden-faced folk in the procession—a splendid omen for the king’s return. Few wept, and more than a handful made disrespectful jests as whispered asides. Even the infantrymen guarding the railings in their new black-banded crimson coats drank strong spirits and smoked and spat at will, and winked slyly at me when Roger’s head was turned.
    “Let’s leave, Roger,” I said at last, though the procession still stretched into the distance in each direction, farther than we could see toward Charing Cross and Whitehall. “I’m so cold you’ll have to bury me soon, too.”
    He nodded with no argument, and we began to make our way through the hoards. We had no choice but to walk, for the streets had been ordered closed, and besides, they were so full of people that no carriages or hackneys could have passed. Finally we found a small cookshop that had remained open, and though nearly every bench inside was taken, we squeezed our way to a place in the back, mercifully close to the fireplace. There was more merriment than somber mourning here, too, with voices happily raised in convivial good cheer.
    A harried maid brought us ale in pewter tankards and set a steaming dish of sausages before us. I’d never smelled anything so deliciously fragrant, the scent of the ground mace together with the browned chopped meat and suet cooked in butter, and set in a pool of mustard sauce.
    “Here you go, Barbara,” Roger said, tipping several of the glistening sausages onto my plate. “Is there any finer dish on a chill day than Oxford Kate’s sausages?”
    I pushed back the hood of my cloak and drank deep of the ale. “And who, pray, is Oxford Kate?”
    “You shouldn’t ask that of a Cambridge man,” he said, laughing, “but I’ve always heard she was the first cook to concoct these little sausages for the students there. Go on, try one.”
    I speared one of the small sausages with my fork, holding it up before my face to consider it: no larger than the size of my middle finger, yet delectably greasy, with juice oozing around the fork’s twin tines. “Poor Kate! Is this the best-sized prick she can expect, surrounded by so many randy young scholars?”
    Roger gulped and snorted his ale, and glanced about to see if any others had heard me. “You’re a wicked lass, Barbara.”
    “Not wicked, Mr. Palmer, but honest,” I said, running my tongue the squat length of the sausage. “Fie, fie on your puny Oxford men, if they expect to please the ladies