EPISODE 29: "Lady Maude's Dark Age Diary."

"DEAR DIARY, THE PLAGUE IS BACK AND SO IS MY HUSBAND - I DON'T KNOW WHICH IS WORSE......"

“"Thanks to that idiot Jericho Tibbs, Maude has re-appeared in Medieval England, in 1418 to be precise and she's dismayed to find that her husband is the favourite genocidal maniac of King Henry V and he's back from France - like the Black Plague, a very unwelcome visitor!

But Sir Tom de Pratt and his loyal Squire, Max are also back in England and riding to the rescue with the help of Lady Maude’s Uncle, Sir Larde De Phisole!”
 
 The Ghost Writer.

29: LADY MAUDE'S DARK AGE DIARY.

I pulled my head from the water butt and shook my long hair about. Water droplets, complete with drowning lice, flew about. "Do you fucking mind Boss! I have a hangover too you know and my bloody head is a lot bigger than yours." Norman, my horse, wasn't happy, it appears French wine disagreed with him as much as it did with me.

"I TOLD YOU TO STICK TO BEER!"

"Norman, shut the fuck up!" If I had told him once, I had a hundred times, don't talk when there are others about. I glanced down at the two scouts, curled up on grass; the big fellow with rotten teeth was clutching a flagon and muttering in his sleep about a sheep called 'Ruby' - I think he was Welsh. The smaller, skinny boy was clutching his testicles and moaning aloud; "Oh my God, let me suck that toad in the blue skirt." I remembered that the boy had been eating the local mushrooms, so that was alright. I pointed to the incumbent pair and added; "If those two ignorant fuckers heard you, we could both end up as toast." I slapped his flanks and we started to walk back down towards my squire Max.

Yet another long day in the bloody saddle; "Yeah, but it's not too bad for you, its me that does the fucking walking, ain't it?" Norman complained bitterly, which I ignored. But Castle Deathpit, the ancestral home of the D'Ogbreaths could not be more than 60 leagues ride now.

My hangover wasn't a pleasant affair, I knew I should have stuck to good English beer, but somehow plundered wine always tasted better. "Max, I need you to fix this damn armour, it feels like my ribs are taking a holiday in an Iron Maiden - a fucking small one." Max, my squire was an idiot, a pleasant idiot whose father had slipped me a large bag of silver coins to take him. I can still remember the noise of celebration as we left the castle, people were cheering, singing and dancing and I clearly heard his mother say;" For just one bag of silver, he must be a fucking idiot too!"

We had passed a couple of peasants, waiting to be hung for stealing a handful of nails and a rabbit; They cheered wildly, shouting happily as the nooses were placed around their necks, "He's gone! The fucking idiot has gone! Praise to God!" Then they were dangling from the scaffold, legs kicking, bowels emptying, and life draining away. That's when I realised I may have made a big mistake.

Max wasn't just an idiot, he was an unlucky idiot. Within a couple of days, upon return to my Manor: 'Pratt House', my favourite dog Solomon had contracted a bad form of distemper and his back leg fell off. Two barns burnt down. My old maiden aunt caught a dose of plague and in her agony jumped from the roof, landing on the King's Tax Collector, a certain Sir Henry Madhouse who took exception to this and doubled the tax expected from me - after the local surgeon had removed my dear, departed aunt's knitting needles from his thigh and backside.

I had to give him the bag of silver and agree to accompany the King on his latest genocidal tour-de-France. Thus I and several men-at-arms, including Max had found ourselves in Normandy under the command of the Kings favourite genocidal maniac Sir Clarence D'Ogbreath. Now this gentleman will figure prominently in this tale of Medieval love, war, plague and exploding toilets.

"SIR CLARENCE D'OGBREATH - WARLORD."

Just to give you a little insight into his character, here's his page in the popular parchment: " Completely Mad Killers and who their ancestors are." A best seller in the late Medieval period.

"Sir Clarence has slaughtered, raped and pillaged his way through England, Wales, Scotland and France, England was bit of a mistake, he was drunk and thought Canterbury was in Spain, he raped the Archbishop and would have burnt down the Cathedral, but his war-horse: ‘Blossom’ - had pissed on the matches.....

He did apologise, but Henry just laughed about it.

He fought the Welsh in Caernarvon, looting villages, hanging everyone over the age of five, raping the sheep (that really upset the Welsh warriors) and drowning the entire Male Voice Choir in a vat of Cider, quite valiantly and with great courage, the Choir members attempted to thwart the evil Englishman’s enjoyment of their deaths by trying to drink their way out – they would have succeeded, but they kept asking for another round.

He gained the nickname; ‘D’Ogbreath, the shovel of Scotland’ with his winter campaign to subdue the Scottish tribes, being pissed as a brewery rat, he had lead his army into the Highlands, forgetting to supply any swords, spears or axes to his battle weary troops.

When confronted by a large and angry ginger wall of steel and kilts at the battle of “Na’Lassie I ken fukall” (November 1416) He used his initiative and General ship by issuing spades and shovels to his men – they won.

The brave Scot’s had no answer to a well aimed shovel smacked over their ‘Tam O’Shanter’ or slapped against their sporran, so they fled to the local taverns to drown their sorrows and nurse some very sore heads and testicles.

Sir D’Ogbreath found some bagpipes on the field of battle and cemented his reputation as an evil bastard by having them hung, drawn and quartered – he thought they were pygmy tribesmen!"

He really did give the English a bad name in bonnie Scotland, but worse, he was the husband of my beloved Lady Maude and she despised him, and now he was back from France, heading home to enjoy his conjugal rights - but I have a feeling that Maude would rather sleep with Satan.

"I'M GAME - IF SHE IS!!"

So, I'm heading to the Castle with Maude's loving Uncle; Sir Larde De Phisole, to rescue her before he turns up with the King's Eastern Army and attempts to have he's wicked way. Thus my party is travelling the Great Northern Road to the Castle, except the road is not that great; it's all ruts, potholes, stones and gallows.

Yes, every couple of miles they [the local councils] have splendid and expensive gallows, but spend shit all on the fucking road. Typically, our wonderful King tackled the problem by raising a 'Road Tax' on all bullocks that used the road - if your bullocks were on the road, you had to pay tuppence.

Some peasants misheard the proclamation and after several nasty incidents with large knives and testicles, it was changed to include any animals that pulled a cart. The peasants got around that one by pulling the carts themselves! Apparently the bullocks just stood and watched in amazement ;" How can these fuckwits be made in God's image" they asked amongst themselves.

A question our fellow traveller also asked on occasion. Bishop Elwood Naseby Crotchgrabber was on route to York, to become the Archbishop's personal assistant on orders of the King and to oversee the collection of yet another new tax.

The latest cracker from the English treasury was a tax levied on doors, if you had a door or doors, you had to pay tuppence. Many peasants got round that one by removing the door and using it as a table. Unfortunately, England had many bandits in these hard times and they weren't all fucking Robin Hoods - lots of people awoke to find that all they had left was the bloody door.

"BISHOP ELWOOD NASEBY CROTCHGRABBER"

But the real problem with our travelling companion was his obsession with witches; he blamed them for everything, the weather, the plague, poor crops, his haemorrhoid's and very small penis. He seems to find them everywhere. Just a couple of days ago, he burnt at the stake, an old woman who was suspected of cursing a neighbours bowel movements.

Apparently, the man had eaten several platefuls of prunes and had to take up residence in the privy [toilet] for three days and nights. He soon ran out of rag to wipe his bottom and the grass around his privy looked like a herd of buffalo had passed by.

He knew that the old witch had cursed him, because she had charged him tuppence for cooking and cleaning in his hovel, for the time he was unavoidably detained in the shithouse. The Bishop agreed, and for a small fee [tuppence] judged the case and strangely enough, found her guilty of witchcraft.

The most damning evidence presented against her was a cooking pot.

It had teeth and horns painted on it - quite crudely done, in red ink and in a hurry obviously. That settled the case, and she was dragged from the court by a screaming crowd shouting; "Burn her! Burn her!" The mob leader was the local wood seller.

I kept the Bishop and Norman well apart.

We were due to meet Lady Maude's Uncle, Sir Larde De Phisole at the Gallows Crossroads, Doncaster, where we would join forces and head for Castle Deathpit. What I learnt from the Bishop was that the King, our beloved Henry V, also had an unhealthy obsession for Lady Maude.

"OUR BELOVED KING: HENRY V."

Apparently, he had a glimpse of her ankles at a Court dance and spent the evening drooling into his wine goblet, he even ignored the company of his three Royal mistress's; Gwen Slappertart, a big, buxom Welsh girl who was famed for the things she could do with leeks, Daisy the sheep [no further comment there] and Arthur, a woodcutter who liked to dress in women's clothes and was known for his big chopper.

So this was a tangled web of Medieval love, lust, hate and exploding toilets. Even as we picked our way along the not so Great North Road, back at Castle Deathpit things were also moving.

Mostly the privy doors.

The plague was in town, known colloquially as the 'Black Death' or affectionately as: 'Old Boils' or 'I'd sooner have leprosy' - it was all the rage in Medieval England.

People would simply sneeze, say;" Oh Shit!" and fall over dead, covered in festering boils.

It didn't really care who you were, Prince or peasant, good or evil, young or old, whore or Nun, it carried them away regardless. In their millions - it had decimated Medieval Europe and now you couldn't buy a decent serf anywhere - some were even asking for wages to work the now empty farms!

At Castle Deathpit, Lady Maude anxiously awaited Sir Tom and her Uncles' arrival - hopefully before her dreadful husband put in an appearance. But she had more pressing matters to plague her mind: the Black Death had arrived!

"LADY MAUDE D'OGBREATH."

“I thought that was a wonderful pun: 'More pressing matters to plague her mind' - That's quite good for me......"

Tom.

“Oh my word – that’s just so bad I reduced his note, maybe no-one will notice it!

I need a whisky!"

The Ghost Writer.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the Castle privy's had taken to exploding without warning, Old Winkle Smurgg - The Castle's Chief Steward, had come to a terrible end in the North Tower toilet. The poor old fellow had eased his ancient bones down on the wooden seat and started to whittle down a cheap gold cruxifix [he could sell the flakes, without anyone noticing it had been devalued] when the place exploded in flame and Winkle was hurdled through the privy window. He splash landed in the filthy moat, and the explosion didn't really finish him off - the moat did.

As a deterrent to would be attackers, the moat had all the castle's refuse and toilets emptied into it - no one would swim in that. Winkle choose not to as well - he drowned, he was 41.

Lady Maude had attended his simple funeral, along with some of the castle servants and many villagers from the local town of Little Bogging. Two of the Pall bearers died before the service started and were rolled into the open grave - dug ready for Winkle, now he would have company for ever. During the service, a young alter boy sneezed and everyone stared at him in horror; "Its alright, I've got hay fever." He smiled, then added;" Oh Shit!"

before dropping into the hole - he had realised that he didn't suffer from hay fever.

The service had just concluded when the Vicar, sneezing loudly, managed to gasp out;" Oh Shit!" before dropping on top of the grave. The grave diggers carried on throwing earth at the busy grave of Winkle Smurgg and soon it was four feet higher than any other grave in the church cemetery. They patted it down with their shovels and his grateful widow, Alice, tipped them tuppence. Big Fester took the money and tipped his hat; he liked the look of Alice and promised to call round later for a little bread and beer.

Alice winked and looking around the graveyard said;" Don't make it too later." But she only made it to the church yard gate before sneezing, yelling;" Oh Shit!" and falling into a ditch. Big Fester sadly covered her with dirt, throwing a couple of buttercups onto the little mound and sighing loudly at his loss.

Spade over shoulder, he headed for the Tavern: 'The Dogbreath Arms' to drown his sorrows, he sat for some time drinking in the pub and then noticed that everyone was dead. They lay slumped across tables, curled upon the floor and hanging out of windows;" I wondered why they were being so bloody unsociable." He muttered and sipped his beer; it was going to be a busy day tomorrow.

"CASTLE DEATHPIT - AVOID THE TOILETS!"

Along the river road came a ragged band of men, carts and horses. At their head rode two knights, approaching Castle Deathpit, they raised their swords and shouted;" For our Lady Maude!" Sir Tom and Sir Larde had arrived.

No. 29 OF 'A SKELETON'S LIFE SERIES:

                                  

"SIR TOM SPEAKS HIS MIND."

FORWARD TO EPISODE 30. "SEIGE!"

RETURN TO EPISODE 28. "INVASION."

                                             

"THE GHOST WRITER."

Copyright © 2011-2021 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.