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EPISODE 30: "Seige!"

"I CAN SEE BUGGER ALL IN THIS BLOODY HELMET!"

Episode 30: "Siege!"

Sir Clarence D’ogbreath had arrived with his army on a lovely sunny morning, expecting a warm greeting from his beautiful wife; Lady Maude. But the drawbridge was up and the village deserted. “They can’t all be stuck in the fucking privy!” He muttered to himself and shouted loudly and demanded entry to his castle [and his wife!] – But life can be surprising sometimes, and the War Lord was well surprised when a bucket of horse piss landed on his head!

I watched from the front tower with Lady Maude and Sir Larde Phisole [Maude’s Uncle] and commented; ” Norman passed that this morning, it’s mostly alcohol.” Lady Maude grinned; “I hope they try and dry the bogging rat with a torch!” I gripped Maude’s hands and we smiled at each other – Sir Larde rolled his eyes and sighed; “Young love.” Then he smiled, remembering his own sweet first love, a goat called Caesar, happy days back then, until the heartbreak of finding that his father had served Caesar up as a second course, at the banquet in honour of the old King.

Still, his current wife Lady Petra did resemble his lost love – and strangely enough, smelt the same.

Sir Clarence tried negotiation – it didn’t get far.

"FUCK OFF YOU ENGHLISH PIG-DOGS....SORRY, FOOLISH COMRADES!"

My old friend Sir Frank Wankspank had agreed to negotiate with the evil War Lord and I think he did a cracking job. But he does have a strange accent and smells strongly of garlic - I have known him for years, we met when I campaigned with the King in Normandy, bumping into him sketching our soldiers and encampment one night. Sir Frank says he can't seem to lose his 'cockney' accent, having travelled from the East end of London to support our dear King in his latest genocidal day trip to France.

The King liked him, especially after Sir Frank gave him some parchment containing sketches of the decadent French Kings palace orgies. King Henry was well pleased until he spotted a woman that closely resembled his mistress at the time – Mrs.Virgina Buttlarge, a big woman from the small town of Liverpool, the King was shocked to discover that less people had the plague than had her – it caused a little rift in the Kings bedchamber and the errant mistress was banished to the horrors of England’s version of Hades: Hull.

I understand that she did charity work for the local sailors and fishermen and had been nominated for Sainthood by the local Bishop, who also had a fine reputation for doing good and anything in a skirt. They had made a great team until the King burnt her at the stake and sold the Bishop to the Irish tribes for a couple of whisky barrels – they ate him.

"THE KING! - GOD BLESS HIM!"

No-one could accuse our dear King of holding grudges………

Frustrated by the failure to negotiate the return of his castle and wife, Sir Clarence decided to siege us. Giant catapults were bought up and loaded with any peasants he could find locally, they were fired over our walls causing damage and havoc. A very puzzled Maude asked her dear Uncle; “Why doesn’t he use big stones or flaming barrels of tar!”

Sir Larde patted her shoulder and smiled at her innocence of modern warfare; “He doesn’t really want to damage the castle, Sir Clarence is behind with the mortgage and didn’t pay for siege insurance. He may be a crazed killer but he’s not that daft.”

A large peasant splattered near us, still holding his flagon of beer gripped tightly in both hands, he opened his eyes briefly and whispered; “Morning my Lady, I see your husband is back and in better mood than he left.” Then his head rolled down the tower steps with a strange grin on its face – Big Fester had remembered that the publican had forgotten to charge him tuppence for the beer, because he too had been dragged out to fill a catapults sling.

The skinny bar owner also landed nearby with tears in his eyes – he too had remembered about the tuppence.

"WELL, HE WAS BEHIND WITH THE MORTGAGE PAYMENTS...."

Well, the siege of Deathpit Castle lasted for some weeks and the castle garrison was reduced to eating dogs, cats, rats and the occasional horse - Norman escaped this horrible fate with a very clever trick: every time starving peasants approached his stable, he would call for help at the top of his voice and the peasants fled believing there were guards inside.

It especially worked when he had been at the beer, the peasants really did think there were drunken solders inside!

Old Bishop Crotchgrabber had escaped over the wall and was captured by Sir Clarence, he did return to us - via a catapult. Witches everywhere celebrated with a black Mass and turned the odd serf into a toad or worse: they found themselves in Hull.

Then on a bright sunny morning yet another army appeared: it was the dear King with his Northern army and he had a solution to the problem that didn't involve losing any more of his trained solders - the fate of the castle would be decided by a football match!

Thus a few days later the two teams assembled, the King had decreed no weapons and as both sides prepared to play, the King wisely had his own men search the participants. Within a hour there was a pile of swords, daggers, crossbows and axes piled up by the castle gate. The King gave Lady Maude a very stern look when two very sharp hair pins were found - she went a little red but nothing was said.

The referee was the Kings herald; Sir Basil de Nobsway, a knight famed for his honesty and loyalty, he had held the post for some years despite being blind and incontinent, many a battle had to be paused whilst he was 'excused'. The King had constructed a great pavilion from which to view the sport and insisted that Lady Maude take her place next to him, whilst Sir Larde ran up and down our players line with the magic bucket and sponge - it was full of ale, not water and there were dozens of buckets.

I had elected myself Captain and wore a bright pink armband that Max had found - Sir Clarence wore a black one and kept making 'throat cutting' signs to me - but we shook hands and the Herald tossed a peasant for who kicked off.

The serf landed with a skull thumping crash; "Heads!" yelled the old Herald, that was a good sign since Sir Clarence had called 'Arse's'. Our cheerleaders jumped about lifting their skirts and showing their bare arses to the opposition supporters, the local brothel Keeper Mrs. Kate Coxstanding had allowed her girls the time off to aid our cause.

The only Cheerleaders the opposition could muster was the local vicar, two fat old ladies, a donkey called Oswald and three Welsh hat makers dressed in bright pink tunics. I now know where Max purchased my armband.

The rules were explained; there weren't any.

"THAT'S FUCKING OFFSIDE...WHATEVER THAT MEANS!"

At 3pm the great football game of Deathpit Castle kicked off with about three hundred players a side. Half-time was at midnight and the following day we changed ends (well, it was villages actually.....) Two days later the final trumpet was sounded and someone had actually found the ball!

As we all lay around drinking ale and having our wounds dressed, the herald's men gave the result:

"NO GOALS SCORED BY EITHER TEAM! Sir Clarence had thirteen men sent off because they killed someone." The crowd booed at that.

The Heralds continued; "Sir Tom was allowed thirteen substitutes during the game." The crowd cheered that one. "THE RESULT IS A DRAW AND EXTRA TIME WILL BE PLAYED!"

Everyone cheered and two days extra time was decided. During the game I encountered Sir Clarence a couple of times; he tried to poke my eyes out with his long fingers so I kicked him in the testicles - now that's what I call a draw!

As with all great English sporting occasions; it pissed with rain and struggling in mud became part of the fun, then almost despair for the brave Castle side: Sir Clarence held the ball aloft and declared victory. There was total silence for a few seconds, then the Herald disallowed the goal - the ball was a peasants head cunningly wrapped in leather!

There was a huge cheer as the game continued and Sir Clarence sulked at the rear until the King put his boot up his arse and told him to get on with it. The King was being entertained by our "cheerleaders" and had definitely mellowed after Mrs. Coxstanding showed him the tricks she acquired at North Moor Abbey - the Monks there certainly knew how to pass long winter evenings with just string and honey for amusement.

Then a miracle! A real gold plated miracle! A sign from God himself!

As I washed the mud from my eyes and mouth, something hard bounced off my head and I grabbed it with both hands. To my amazement it was the ball!

I held it aloft and shouted; "Victory!"

Then as everyone started cheering, I noticed Norman sneaking back into his stable - he always did know how to kick bloody well......

Sir Larde and I was carried shoulder high to the King, who announced that victory was ours and that Lady Maude's marriage was dissolved, but we had to give Castle Deathpit back to old misery guts because he would sulk.

That's when the Royal messenger arrived, leaping from his horse and gasping for breath as he informed the King that God IV himself had arrived in the village of Little Bogging and was looking for a Sir Tomas de Pratt - A 'brown trouser' moment was an understatement.

Now what?

No. 30 OF 'A SKELETON'S LIFE SERIES:

"THE BAND :'BLACK DEATH' - IS VERY POPULAR!"

FORWARD TO EPISODE 31. "GOD IV."

RETURN TO EPISODE 29. "LADY MAUDE'S DARK AGE DIARY."

"THE GHOST WRITER."

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."