Número 4

Last night the internet was down, but here goes #4.

January 13, 1453

Ruffle and crinkle of crinoline crisp, "The mistress is sick!"

The smell of wet dog, a hound opens a drowsy eye

And shuts it again, it's too early to begin the hunt.

A satin robe stamped with red roses is draped over a generous belly

Which goes down two floors to her bed, a mound covered in down.

She is with child, "A boy, Monseigneur, to silence their viperous tongues!"

Back up again to rouse the hounds, exchange silk for heavy furs.

The sun stretches and shakes off sleep, sending translucent

Rays which sparkle off the Thames like the crown I see upon my son's head.