mercredi, novembre 01, 2006

Sir John in Folkestone

Benedicitee, goode readers alle! Sir John heere agayn, bidding yow sad greetinges from Folkestone.

Whan last I posted I was en route to Dungeness, there to ascertayn yf a breaded concocioun of cheese y-hadde uppon its selfe an ymage of our late kyng, Edward the Secounde. Sothliche, gentils, yt was nat so. Uppon closer inspecioun it semed me that this breaded snakke bore the ymage nat of Edward the Secounde but of Henry of Lancastre, the thirde earle of Lancastre, and thus it dyd nat merit inclusioun in our lorde the kynges compilacioun of the wonderes and miracles of hys greet-grandsire.

Also whilst in Dungeness I met a fair gentil yclept Derek who is deepe in studye of the lyf and werkes of Edward the Secounde, and he hath assured me that he ys labourynge to make a certayne thynge—a performaunce, methinketh—in honour of the memorie of that sayde kynge, the whych will honour his manliness and virtu. I schal be ryght glad to report thatte to oure kynge, and I was muchel plesed to maken acquayntaunce of thys foresayd gentilhomme.

But there I was, good readers alle, with yet another day before I had to be back in Londoun (I there am nat due until tomorrowes eve). So I thoughte backe to whan I hadde but xv winteres age, whan first I went fro St Albans to the see. I went to Folkestone, and there saw I the schore of Fraunce and passed thatte see, only now to retourn. So I thoughte it ryght gode sport to revisit Folkestone before retourning to London.

I arrived in Folkestone thys evening, and I toke lodging at an inne near the cite centre. But just as I was setting outte from thatte inne to fynde diner (I was y-seeking a Petit Chef; theyre food sitteth juste ryghte with thys traveler) I sawe a greet wonder, the whych I schal share wyth yow.

Yt was at nyghtfalle that I stepped fro myne inne, and I saw onne the hygh street a greet diversitee of lytel chyldren—or lytel feendes, I scholde saye! “What manere of children are these?” asked I to no-one in particuleer. Thanne a lytel chyld in the foule visage of a devil y-walked uppe to me.

“Trick ‘n treat,” sayde the lytel devil.

“Whatte?” sayde I. “I am a knyght, thought that I am unworthy, and I wolde nevere trick any gentil, nat even a devil. And whatte wolde yow have me trete?”

“I wan' candy!” shouted the lytel feendish imp. “Candy!” And than dyd the drasty lytel thynge begynne to pryck at myne legges wyth hys lytel deviles speere, the whych was more hurteful than I hadde thought possible.

But then, goode readers, a visioun of greet beautee y-stepped from the thronge, there to save me fro the unkynde proddynges of the devil. Oh, readers, she was radiant and ypassed all her kynde in lovelinesse. She wore a coroun of red gold atop her fayre, yelew hair, and uppon her shyrt were the wordes "Council Flat Princess". Ay, thought I, thys ys a princess indeed!

“Damien,” quod she, “stop it! Wot ‘ave I told you ‘bout poking people? We’ll go straight back ‘ome!”

“Nay, nay, goode madame,” quod I. “Youre lytle sonne, thought that he ys ful unwholesomely y-dressed, myght make a ryght gode and gentil knyght one daye. He hath, uh, spiryt.”

Then ynto conversacioun with this gode woman felle I, and I learned that Kayleigh (for thatte ys her name, and a ful beauteous one ate thatte, mayhap out of the Yrysshe langage) spendeth her tyme in meditacioun of thynges astrologickal. Wel it pleaseth me that wommen nowadayes are learnynge of the sciences and the artes. Ne never thought me that wommen ne coulde nat of those thynges. Dyd nat God create man and womman, the verray two, togedir t’erth to rewle? So semeth it me, any-way. She told me muchel about my signe, and sayde that fate us togethre threw!

So Kayleigh and I y-toke her lytle child, Damien, to a place yclept the Leisure Centre, whar he was to yspende the eve with other lytel ghouls and goblins. Thys ys a newe custome to me, thys All Hallowes Eve, when gentils neer and fare y-dress lyke unto straunge and churlish thynges. Thys pleaseth me also; next yeere I schal be a Cynocephalus.

Any-way, we went us two to a local publick house, and there Kayleigh hadde the “wyne speciale”, the whych thynge was many large glasses of white wyne, the whych were on speciale sale to those in costumes. We passed muchel of the eve in thys manere, drynkynge oure wine and conversynge.

“So, wot are you—really?” asked Kayleigh after we hadde had muchel of the rede and of the whyte.

“Ich am a knyghte of St Albans,” quod I.

“And I’m a princess, tee hee,” quod she.

“I knew yt!” quod I. “I knew of your grace and gentilesse! O, your merciless beautee! Would yow take on thys humble knight as your humble suitor, pryncess fair?”

“You can walk me back to my flat,” she saide.

O, readers! If only I knewe what tristesse was to yfalle! No sooner hadde we but exited the publick house than I knewe that thys fair maybe had ydronken of the wyne overmuch—she was dronke! And I was a bit buzzynge, I do admyt, but I am a kyght, and the holdynge of our wyne is part of kynghtly trayninge.

But verily, I did walk the fair Kayleigh to her flatte, the whych place I was able to locate by going through the ladyes hande-bag, which contained that informacioun. Finally we arrived there, Kayleigh stumblyng and belching. “Fayre Kayleigh,” quod I, “are yow aryght? I am muchel distourbed and trowbled, and heavey in herte. Kayleigh,” I sayde, “are yow aryght?”

Atte thys her stomack yrupted ful horribly all over myne doublet. The wyne yt was nat so speciale then.

I putte Kayleigh to bedde in her flatte, and than rushed I outsyde, there to divest me of myne doublet, thatte thynge to wasshe (leste yt stayne), but yn the doing I lette the door to the flatte blow shutte, with the fayre Kayleigh and here hand-bag and keyes ynside! O creuel fate! O creuel destinee! I have come back to myne inne to aske if anyone knows of this fair princesse, but no one knows, and all and sundry calleth me dronke. O! Tomorrow muste I retourn to London, at our kinges commaund! Kynge and parlement beckon! But whatte of the fayre Kayleigh? Gentils, gentils, whatte am I to do?

UPDATE: O, creuel, creuel fate. I have just done a Love Test and ylearned this:
LoveTest Question Analysis

Kayleigh Is Your Perfect Soulmate, Sir John!

To have the best possible relationship with your dream date,
you need a lot of quality time to communicate. Also make
sure that you ask the right questions right from the start
in order to avoid problems and misunderstandings later on.
How, O how can we communicate yf I am in London and away on the kynges privee businesse? O, she ys myne soules mate! Creuel, creuel, love!

11 commentaires:

Zarquon a dit…

How, O how can we communicate yf I am in London and away on the kynges privee businesse?

I have heard of ye awful invencioun called ye net of nets that may aid thee.

heldmyw a dit…

God shilde thee frome meschaunce!

Perchance this Céilidh is better foresworn? What maner o doofus artow, that thou chayse the unchayste wine-bibbers loose abroad? Be'est thou knyght or bawd?

Alexander Pittsburgiensis a dit…

Didst ye perchance sicht of the nombre of ye apartemente of gentil ladie Kayleigh? Ich supose the "nette of nettes" mentionned afore by Zarquon cauld be a greate helppe in alocatinge thy ladie-love.

Regardes to yow, Sir Jehan.

Miss Elizabeth a dit…

Tak corage, sir. Amor vincit omnia.

Valentinus Agricola a dit…

Certes, the inter rete of Seynte Isidor de Sevilla maketh muchel ease of the ars dictaminis, though thou mayest nede encloose swich coyne as shalle provyde for som scolare for to rede it to thy widowe. Peraventure methinketh it is mete that thou learnest in what manere here Prince hath mette his Makere.

Anonyme a dit…

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Sir John Mandeville a dit…

Gold? Whatte? I have y-plenty of gold left overre from myne trippe to Ceylon, in whiche place there be gold-diggyng antes.

FSJL a dit…

Sir Johne, meseemeth thatte thou should vnto thisse ladie pay grete courte.

Katherine de Swineford a dit…

When thou goost neightest on the hunt, cwelle thee for hir a faire deer. Then send hit unto the dame, and she shall thinke of thee ech time she and hir house from thys flesshe eten. Eke, thereby thou shewst abilitie to provide for a familie. Yf thou use a gode messangier, hit should nat be to lang rotten by the time hit findeth hir.

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