| A Knight's Tale - wherein we meet Mook, a knight of Camelot, and his trusty squire Tom. |
Nov 2, 2007 11:43 am
2367 Views | "Prithee, where art thou bound, sir knight, with such dispatch?"
Mook paused in his cumbersome jog towards the privy. Why couldn't people just say what they meant? If there was one thing Mook couldn't abide about court it was all this theeing and thouing. He much preferred the plain talk of the villagers and countryfolk. Although, recently, he had noticed an alarming tendency amongst the youngsters to adopt courtly attitudes. Apparently "chivalry" was fashionable. Mook knew all about chivalry, but this new form of courtly love, with moon-eyed maidens and love-sick warriors left him rather cold. Chivalry was about honour and respect and honesty. Quite what composing songs to a young girl half glanced in a tower window a week last Wotansday, whom you then couldn't live without, had to do with chivalry was beyond him. Mook turned and bowed, his bladder screaming under the strain. These summer tournies were always the same. A few tankards of beer with long unseen comrades, a speech by the king toasted with more beer, a display of skill at arms for the crowds, followed by more beer and then a dash to the privy. If it wasn't for all these maidens, Mook would quite happily have relieved himself in his armour, as would most of the other knights. But apparently the damsels found the reek of urine soaked leather undergarments unromantic, so the serfs had been digging latrines all the previous day and erecting small wooden huts around them, which most folk considered extremely unhealthy.
"Sorry milady, but I cannot tarry. In faith I...um...well...." Mook glanced up and suddenly the world stood still. (It's a well documented fact that the world does not stand still on these occasions. However, research mages have recently discovered a strong magical field, generated by extreme mood change, that slows time dramatically in a limited area. Tests have proved that it is indistinguishable from the field generated during the Chancellor of the Exchequer´s speech to the Round Table concerning Camelot's annual horse-fodder budget).
She was beautiful. Completely, breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. Mook staggered slightly, found his feet, then lost his tongue. If he had been able to see the trouble that was lurking behind those glorious features, he would have pissed in his armour there and then. But sadly not. Love enters in at the eye, said the poet. What he didn't say is that it immediately severs the optic nerve and leaves you blinder than Blind Pugh the beggar...in Dark Alley...at midnight...on Midwinter's Night.
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Two weeks later Mook sat in his room putting the finishing touches to "Ballad of a Pure Heart". He strummed his lyre and cleared his throat. His young squire, Tom the miller's son, stood in the corner, pale and exhausted. It had been a long afternoon and Tom was beginning to wonder why he had ever wanted to get away from his father's flour milling business and sign on as a squire at Camelot. He had known it would be tough, but, as he prepared to listen to his master sing again, he began to miss the random cuffs to the head, the curses and the casual neglect that had previously been his lot. Thankfully, as Tom's master cleared his throat, there came a knock at the door.
"A letter for you, sire." Tom handed the small tightly-rolled scroll to Mook who broke the familiar seal and read avidly.
"Saddle up my steed, Tom. We're going on a quest," commanded Mook, "What's the matter, boy?"
Tom wiped the tears of relief from his face, "Nothing sire, really. Nothing at all."
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The sun streamed through the boughs of the trees as Mook and Tom picked their way through the undergrowth. Penetrating the forest was becoming more difficult as they progressed, having lost the path some hours before. The horses were picketed in a small glade to be retrieved on their return.
"But I still don't understand, sire," said Tom, continuing the conversation they had been having for most of the day, "Why does milady want this thing so badly? It seems strange to me. After all, what can she do with it?"
Mook sighed and hacked at another overhanging branch, "I've told you before, Tom. It's not what she'll do with it that's important. It's the fact that I get it for her. It's a...thingummy...y'know...a token...of my love for her."
"But you've only seen her once, at the tourney. Ever since then, there have only been letters sent by pageboy. I mean, how do you...how can you...what I mean is...."
"You just know, Tom. It's as if the world stands still and you are consumed by the revelation that, up until that moment, your life has been incomplete, and that from that moment forth your every waking hour will be devoted to her happiness."
"But about a month ago you said that love was for fools and weaklings, and that Sir Parsifal needed his head soaking in the trough for that poem he read at the tavern. What was it called? Oh yeah, 'Ode to a Fair Maiden Fair Fairer than the Fairest of the Fair'. Time stopped still while he read that, I recall."
"Tom, Tom, Tom...you don't un...what was that?"
The two of them froze as from ahead came the noise of movement. The crack of breaking twigs and the swishing of branches mingled with the chink of mail and the rattle of spurs. Mook raised his sword and moved Tom gently behind him.
"Who goes there?"
The noises stopped. The murmur of voices could be heard, and then, from a particularly large and thorny bush, emerged the head and shoulders of a knight.
"Mook!"
"Parsifal! But what in seven circles of hell are you doing here?" Mook lowered his sword and helped his old friend from his entanglements, "And what have you got in the sack?"
Parsifal reached back into the bush and pulled a small red-headed boy from the briar.
"My squire and I have just retrieved the Golden Shawl from the lair of the Mad Crocheter within the depths of this very forest," declared Parsifal, as Tom and Kelvin, Parsifal's squire, exchanged nods of acknowledgement, "And a hard time we had of it too. If Kelvin here hadn't bound her with a skein of two-ply yarn, I might still be being fitted for a patchwork jersey." Parsifal shuddered at the recollection.
Mook blinked, "The Golden Shawl? But I too am bound to retrieve the very same, on the wishes of a fair maid, who at this very moment awaits my return in Slazenger Castle."
This time it was Parsifal's turn to look taken aback, "Slazenger Castle? But who on earth could be awaiting you there? That is the abode of Milady Myfanwy, on whose express desire I embarked upon this quest."
"Let me get this straight," Mook said evenly, "The Lady Myfanwy asked you to retrieve the Golden Shawl for her as a token of your undying love and devotion, on the understanding that you for her were the timeless icon of valour and prowess, a peerless knight to whom no other bore comparison?"
Parsifal shifted uneasily, "Those may have been the words, more or less, yes. Um...you too?"
The sound of birdsong filtered down through the branches. A light breeze ruffled the undergrowth. Nobody spoke for a long moment. Then Mook turned to Tom and placed a hand on his shoulder, "C'mon, Tom. Let's get the horses," he said wearily, "Oh, and Tom?"
"Yes, sire?"
"Remind me to burn that bloody lyre when we get back, won't you?"
"Yes, sire." said Tom, feeling happier than he had in days.
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34 Comments | |
| insomnia |
Oct 31, 2007 12:18 pm
2254 Views | every night it's the same
lie on the sofa
stare at the ceiling
fall asleep
and awake with the dawn
go to bed
and wait
until it's time to get up
sometimes
life is too long
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38 Comments | |
| 13 weeks |
Oct 30, 2007 9:09 am
1994 Views |  | sometimes I forget
that I was to be
a father
had he wanted
to be born
he’d be twelve
now
he
she
I say he
to myself
to say something
‘it’ is too cold a word
for the child
of my imagination
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28 Comments | |
| This serves as your official first warning. |
Oct 29, 2007 7:12 am
2282 Views |  | Dear Member,
We have recently received reports that you have
inappropriate Blings in Friend Finder site.
This directly violates our Terms of Use (which
you agreed to upon joining), and your account
has been deactivated.
Please send us an email stating that you
understand this warning and agree to remove
the inappropriate Blings. We'll then reactivate
your account within 48 hours.
This serves as your official first warning.
The next step will be to delete your account,
without warning or refunds.
If you have any questions, email us at:
[address deleted]
Thank you,
Richard F
Abuse Support |
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48 Comments | |
| my best friend |
Oct 26, 2007 7:57 am
1999 Views | we’d known each other
for a long time
we were friends
after a fashion
I could pour my heart out
to him
and he’d listen and nod
and offer
sound advice
together
we’d put the world to rights
so many times
we’d laughed
at the senselessness
at the heart
of existence
we’d cursed
at the fickleness
in the hearts
of men
we’d loved
and hated
a thousand women
a thousand times
over
then yesterday
he said
you drink too much
I said
you’d know
you’re the barman.
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24 Comments | |
| one last chance |
Oct 25, 2007 8:40 am
1544 Views | Let’s all drink to what nearly was
and to all that we’ll regret
and everything that’s gone to hell
and all that’s heaven sent
for it’s time now at the bar, me lads
it’s time now at the bar
let’s call for one last well-rigged ship
and one last shining star
and one last voyage let’s take, me boys
o’er the ocean’s brow
for there’s no place left for men like us
who never learned to plough
give us one more stab at death, by Christ
or glory overseas
and we’ll show you men who’ve never
kow-towed on bended knee
give us one last cannon’s roar, ye gods
give us one more stormy night
then we’ll come hither good as gold
just give us one last chance to fight.
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10 Comments | |
