Martin Marprelate
Sketch: Queen Elizabeth
Open Source since 1588
Sing a Song of Sixpence
1. Sing a Song of Sixpence
Every tour requires a little entertainment. A break from the travels. Let’s listen to Sheriff Joe tell us the story of Queen Elizabeth and the blackbirds.
The sixpence was minted for the first time in 1551, to replace the debased silver testoon. (The king ran away with the silver but that’s another tune.) On the sixpence is a monarch.
A pocket full of rye. Blackbirds like rye. But rye is a poor man’s wheat. It doesn’t bake well. And, of course, there’s only a pocketful. Not enough for anything at all. Not even a piece of bread. And if there are twenty-four black birds in your field, you have nothing left.
Some claim the rye refers to Edward Rye, of our Wentworth kin. He had the misfortune of entertaining good St. James during the inauguration progression. He died, still crying for restitution while his widow went without a dowry.
Or the fisherman of Rye who demanded their bills be paid and refused to make further sales to the purveyor and rebelled. But, most likely, it’s the poor maid with just a pocketful of rye. Serving the queen she loses everything… Even the tip of her nose.
But that was a common story.
This is not.
This is the story of Queen Elizabeth, Archbishop Mathew Parker and his wife, Margaret Harlston.
“Whoa, here’s a stir now! Sing a song o’ sixpence!”
Lay back, wrap up and hang on!
Let’s sing a song!
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing;
Wasn’t that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in his counting house,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes,
When down came a blackbird
And pecked off her nose.
Blackbirds are omnivorous creatures, who live everywhere and are willing to eat anything. And everything. They come in flocks and devour the seeds that would feed the populous. They are carnal and common.
Twenty-four blackbirds could not possibly fit in a cage, much less a pie. They always take more than they need. They always come in flocks. They are omnivorous and ravenous.
Among strangers, it is always the maid who loses her nose. Among friends we take liberties.
Just wait a second.
Okay, climb on board. Here we go.
Margaret Harlston Hutton, the wife of Archbishop of York, Matthew Hutton, invited Queen Elizabeth to her manor for dinner. The clerical world is aflutter. The queen had never dined with an Archbishop’s wife and had been open in her disgust.
The queen was going to visit a harlot.
Margaret Harlston Hutton gathers together the clergy’s wives, and they worry and worry and worry about what to cook. Then someone finds a manual set forth by Robert May. Who someone remembers was a cook for the King of France. Or was it Spain? Another asks. Both, says the third. But: He was kidnapped and returned for a very high ransom, the definitive voice tells us.
Margaret Harlston Hutton consults the manual called “Triumphs and Trophies in Cookery” – ideas for setting a table fit for a king.
And, of course, Queen Elizabeth is a king.
Margaret follows the instructions meticulously.
Three whole but hollowed stags are placed at each end of the table, preferably with their feet folded beneath them, their heads raised. Struts are placed inside, working around the bones, and a miniature ship donned with miniature sails and adorned with miniature working cannons floats in the cavity of one of the king’s hinds.
The second charger, in the middle, is filled with claret wine. A broad arrow is put through him. This charger’s head is down, as if he is resting, his antlers adorned with flags representing the royalty present.
From the belly of the third stag rises a miniature castle, with battlements, portcullices, gates, and drawbridges. And, of course, a miniature cannon.
Meanwhile, the chefs are finishing the pies. There are at least three per table. The crust is formed in a large pot, tall like a cakepan. All nine pies look exactly alike when the crust is taken from the oven. But, from beneath the pie, the chefs have put either blackbirds or frogs or some other surprise. Sometimes it is nothing at all. One lady in London cooked a dwarf in a pie. There’s no end to creativity.
The dinner begins when the queen plucks the arrow from the middle stag, and the stag leaks threads of wine into halved egg shells nestled in a wall of salt. The queen shrieks and claps her hands, as she certainly must, being the gracious queen she is. She holds up her egg shell and takes a dainty drink. Wasn’t that a dainty drink to set before the queen?
Then the cannons are lit and there are explosions, everyone screams and laughs, smoke fills the air and the room erupts in gay surprise. The queen laughs and laughs, her rotten teeth visible in the candlelight. The servants pass egg shells to the ladies so they can splash rose water on each other, hiding the gritty smell of gunpowder.
And the flags are still there.
A very successful dinner.
Twenty-four blackbirds are impossible to fit in any pot.
When entertaining a king, however, the impossible is expected.
“When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before a king?”
Dainty. Delicately small and pretty. A pot pie with twenty-four blackbirds would be monstrous, a huge obstruction in front of the king. Dainty. A man with a dainty appetite is fastidious and difficult to please. A man with a dainty appetite explores with tenderness.
Dainty St. James they called him.
“The king was in the countinghouse counting out his money. The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey.”
Because kings and queens only reap the benefits and never pay the costs.
The king has become wealthy with the release of so many hostages. Just crows flying past and caught in the king’s vicious net. He is in the counting house.
The queen is reaping the benefits, soft bread rather than the crust they eat because the queen gets the food first. Soft bread and honey from the forest where the queen forbids the people to go.
The maid was working in the garden when “along came a blackbird and nipped off her nose.”
And who ever suffers but the commoners?
Especially the women.
Elizabeth was delighted with the dinner. She was as happy as anyone had ever seen her. She gave each servant her hand and her attention, their course fingers holding her soft palm when they kissed it. They twittered and swooned and whispered and giggled and she treated them as if they were princesses. She had a special smile for the men that caused tingling. As she left, she thanked her host, Matthew, warmly and effusively, graciously expressing her pleasure and enjoyment of the food, entertainment and the company.
Then, she turned to his wife, Margaret. She did not put out her hand. She clasped her hands together but nodded her chin slightly while Margaret curtsied in front of her.
“I may not call you Madam,” Elizabeth said. That would be the proper address for an unmarried woman. “And I am ashamed to call you Missus,” Elizabeth said.
“Still, yet, I do thank you,” Elizabeth said, turning away. With two servants holding the corners of her cape, she mounted a light open coach, wrapping the fur around her as the horse trotted off.
“And along came the queen and snipped off her nose.”
Notes and Provenance
Part of the Martin Marprelate Returns collection