The knights on their silver chargers were well-fortified with alcohol and they had a company of archers on the wall to cover their charge, but their dark-eyed enemy was fierce and grim and too soon were the knights forced to retreat from the field in disarray with their dead and wounded left behind to be cloven by the cruel weapons of the heathens. Oh, no doubt tales will be sung in years to come of that cold morning’s deeds. An epic poem brave Sir Decatur’s charge into the enemy’s midst to hew down the fork-tongue captain before he was felled by stray arrow will be chanted to a roaring toast from the men-at-arms in the mead-hall. Sir Paradise’s brave sacrifice to give his brother knights a chance to retreat becomes an example of how to comport yourself as a knight. So, they tell squires, all that shit about being chaste, dedicated, poetic and a lady’s man? Managing estates books and leading men from the rear? That’s bullshit. This is how a real knight acts. Sir Rainbow’s squire, a learned lad, was beaten down and captured in the midst of a fierce melee. He learned the heathen’s tounge from his book and while being ransomed by the heathens he discoursed at length with one of their lords. Eventually his impassioned debates convinced the heathen King Summerlin to withdraw his armies from the besieged castle and sue for peace. He was eventually sainted for his peaceable work and earned himself a pretty stained-glass window in a church.
But, you know, those fancily embroidered tales aren’t half of the story. The real story.
Take Sir Decatur. It turns out that he was a right bastard who had a young wife at home with an inheritance of almost a thousand hectares of prime farmland… and a younger brother who’d been vigorously courting her while Decatur Sr. was away. Lonely and unhappy wife, dedicated and charming suitor. A tale as old as Cain and Abel. Decatur Jr. gave a pouch of gold coins to a bowman known to have gambling problems in order to take care of any niggling technicalities. Nothing was explicitly asked, nothing was explicitly promised. Everyone walked away happy.
Or poor Sir Paradise, a man who has issues with the adage love thy brother. His love for his brother knights went a little farther than some others and when his father found out…oh dear. De-facto disowned by his family, left almost destitute and with his fathers last words of you’re no knight ringing in his (admittedly pretty) ears, Sir Paradise was determined to go out with a last fuck you, world! that would be sung about for decades to come. What the fuck did that doddering old bastard with his thirteen-year old second wife know? Fuck him. So Sir Paradise was the first to volunteer for the sally and knew that his moment had come when his brothers started to run for the walls. He pulled out his sword and beat those little woodsie fucks down until corpses were piled five deep by his feet until a captain with half a brain just called for someone with a crossbow. Thunk.
And Sir Rainbow’s squire? He didn’t want to be there, shouldn’t have been there. Rainbow’s lord knight was an old man on his last procession around the kingdom before he hung up his gauntlets for good. Misfortune caught them both at the castle when the siege began. The old cock just had to go out in a blaze of glory and volunteered them both for the sally. A woodsie pikeman caught Rainbow in stomach during the first twenty seconds of the sally and spilled his guts in a gorily spectacular manner. The squire was left standing there facing a mounted kniw and three woodsie men-at-arms. After considered the girl waiting for him at home, his future inheritance and his odds of getting either, the squire literally shit his pants threw down his sword and begged for mercy. They smirked at him and moved in for the skill. Shit, think. He’s a merchant’s son, what does he know? Money. Je suis riche et peut être racheté pour l’or. Prenez-moi en vie! he cried in the heathens uncouth language. I am rich and can be ransomed for gold. Take me alive! After a moment of their own consideration the heathens took the squire to the rear of their camp, sluiced off the shit and kept him in a tent with a man who was ordered to slit the squire’s throat if he so much as gave anyone a funny look. This was while they verified through their sources that he really was worth a lot of money. You can consider this a medieval credit check. When word came back that his credit was good, the squire was offered a better tent, more wine and even a pretty wench to warm his bed, in exhcange for a promise of good conduct. How fucking awesome!
But while kicked his heels, the thought about, and talked about, money. How everyone involved could make a ridiculous amount of the golden stuff if they just stopped killing each other for a while. Eventually word of these monologues worked its way up to the ear of King Summerlin and ordered the squire brought to his pavillion. There they talked. The squire spent ten minutes listening to the king’s listing of grievances against his heathen people politely and then embarked on a six hour presentation of Why Trade Routes Make More Sense. Those farmers who desecrated your family graves? They’re someone’s tennants. Buy off their landlord and cast the shit’s out of their arses. Make a lasting example of them. Eventually, convinced that he will be bathing in gold before year’s end and have more concubines that any decently decadent man would know what to do with, King Summerlin ends the siege with an apology to the squire for any rough treatment. It’s just business, you know? No hard feelings? Great!
Such was yesterday’s post. I spoke a few (arguably pretty) words that ultimately didn’t convey on the fact that my marriage, while it includes two very imperfect people, can occasionally be very interesting, have strange consequences and features real flesh and blood people who do things like shit themselves when faced with stiff opposition or bribe the enemy commander to call off his soldiers. I also hate using this blog for extended Evil Villain-style internal monologues.
And no, I’m not gay. It was an analogy.
