East Molesy on the Thames,
December 11th, 1429
(roughly)
Lad…?
Er…Lad…?
Ahem! Lad…? (Deaf as a fence post, that boy)
Oi! Lad!
(Bloody…!!!!)
OI! LAD!!!
Yes ye, laddie. Don’t look at me like that, with yer mouth gapin’ open for all the flies in Christendom ta get themselves swallowed by. Ne’er seen a verteran before, I’ll warrant? Well now ye can says ye have. Make some room, boy, lest ye’ve some tartlet yer expectin’ to settle down aside ye. Na? (No surprise there, the fleabitten little runt.) That’s a lad. Good on ye. Sarge appreciates it.
Ahhhhhh. Feels grand ta take the weight off, ye know. Been on the road all day and I warrant half of the bloody thing is in my throat…OI! WENCH! Fetch me a pitcher of yer finest, a tankard, and a few slices of whatever’s makin’ that God-aweful stench out back. Do it double-time an’ there’s an extra ha’penny in it for ye. (Sit in my lap afterwards and I’ll make it a sovereign, my dear.) Off ye go, lass. An’ hurry back.
Fine bosom on that one, eh lad? Now there’s some what says that more than a mouthful’s a waste, but then them’s probably the same bleedin’ idiots what never had any in the first place so how the bleedin’ hell would they know, eh? Not like ye and I, though. A fine bosom. Fine, fine bosom…
Where was I? Ah…right. Introductions first…that’s the proper thing, ain’t it lad.
Name’s John, boy, but ye just call me ‘Sarge’. That’s what all the other young ‘uns call me. Most of ‘em are dead, of course, but the rest…they still calls me ‘Sarge’. That’s on account of me bein’ a sergeant, you know. Leastwise, I used to be. Ol’ John’s retired, as ye can imagine. Not much call for a soldier with only one arm in the king’s army these days…leastwise, not now that the fightin’s over an’ done with. ‘T’weren’t that long ago, though, when I stood on his Grace’s castle wall, a good length o’ steel in me hand...(and my balls in me throat...)and laid all about me into the enemy. Sent plenty o’ men to meet their maker, I done. Kilt and all.
Ah…I see it in yer eyes. Ye likes talk of the fightin’ do you lad? Have a proper hate for the Scot, do you? Well mine’s a tale worth tellin’, then, if ye’ve the mind to hear it. In fact, what say you and I…
Thank ye lass…I’ll just…err…must ha’ left it with my saddle bags. Ne’er mind. I’ll fetch it later and pay ye then. What? I’m good fer it, lass. Sergeant in the King’s army, don’t you know. Leastwise, I used ta be. Now, now. Don’t get all uppity on me (unless ye mean business…and let’s save that fer later). Perhaps my new good friend here will stand me the coin ‘til I go fer a whiz or check on my horse. Thanks lad. Much appreciated. I’ll pay ye back, don’t ye worry. Ol’ John’s an honest soldier and doesn’t forget his debts.
Great bosom, that…
Now where was I? Fightin’? Yes. I done plenty o’ that in my time. All the way from the Thames ta Loch Shin an’ then some. I’ll tell ye what, boy. Ye just settle back and I’ll give ye my story. Don’t ye worry, lad. Ye’ll get yer fill of bloodshed in the hearin’…and a few of my more glorious private battles, if ye’ve the mind to here ‘em – if ye catch my drift? It’s not only the men that raise their skirts up in the north, ye see. (A bit slow, but he does catch on eventually.) Pour some of that heavenly stuff in my tankard, lad, cause it’s a devil ta do it with just the one hand and I’ve a mighty thirst on me - on account of all that dust on the road.
My thanks, again, boy. God’s blessing upon ye an’ all that.
Come ta think on it, there was a lad just like ye - name of James, or Harry, or Robby or somewhat…I forget which at the moment – but he looked just like ye. He’s dead now, poor bugger - caught an arrow in the lung at the siege of some bloody place or other...took him two weeks ta die…horrible way ta go, don’t ye know…all black and puss-filled like he’d been rotting there for all those days and just didn’t know it – but before that, when he was hale and hearty, the boy sure knew how ta treat ol’ Sarge, he did. Stood me ta many a pint during the campaigns, he did…and the occasional price of a wench. Pity he had ta go an’ get hisself killed like that. A damned cryin’ shame. A toast, lad. Raise yer vessel to the memory of young…whatshisname…God rest his soul. A fine, fine lad…and there was never a finer…
But ye wanted ta hear talk of war, din’t ye? Well at the battle at Dun….but there I go again. Always putin’ the cart before the horse, as my Pa used ta say – not that we had neither, bein’ poor as we was, but he meant it figurative-like, don’t ye know. We had a mule, once, mind ye. Pa got him from the miller but he ended up on our dinner table soon enough – the mule, that is, not the miller – all because of the cost of the grain you understand…not ‘cause he was good fer eatin’. Not good at all. Pretty lean by then. Lean and stringy…
Where was I? Oh. Right. Well, it’s best to start these things from the beginnin’, I always say, and make a clean breast of it. And speakin’ of breasts – and a lovely pair on that wench over there, don’t ye think - that’s where my story really begins.
Rosa was her name…
December 11th, 1429
(roughly)
Lad…?
Er…Lad…?
Ahem! Lad…? (Deaf as a fence post, that boy)
Oi! Lad!
(Bloody…!!!!)
OI! LAD!!!
Yes ye, laddie. Don’t look at me like that, with yer mouth gapin’ open for all the flies in Christendom ta get themselves swallowed by. Ne’er seen a verteran before, I’ll warrant? Well now ye can says ye have. Make some room, boy, lest ye’ve some tartlet yer expectin’ to settle down aside ye. Na? (No surprise there, the fleabitten little runt.) That’s a lad. Good on ye. Sarge appreciates it.
Ahhhhhh. Feels grand ta take the weight off, ye know. Been on the road all day and I warrant half of the bloody thing is in my throat…OI! WENCH! Fetch me a pitcher of yer finest, a tankard, and a few slices of whatever’s makin’ that God-aweful stench out back. Do it double-time an’ there’s an extra ha’penny in it for ye. (Sit in my lap afterwards and I’ll make it a sovereign, my dear.) Off ye go, lass. An’ hurry back.
Fine bosom on that one, eh lad? Now there’s some what says that more than a mouthful’s a waste, but then them’s probably the same bleedin’ idiots what never had any in the first place so how the bleedin’ hell would they know, eh? Not like ye and I, though. A fine bosom. Fine, fine bosom…
Where was I? Ah…right. Introductions first…that’s the proper thing, ain’t it lad.
Name’s John, boy, but ye just call me ‘Sarge’. That’s what all the other young ‘uns call me. Most of ‘em are dead, of course, but the rest…they still calls me ‘Sarge’. That’s on account of me bein’ a sergeant, you know. Leastwise, I used to be. Ol’ John’s retired, as ye can imagine. Not much call for a soldier with only one arm in the king’s army these days…leastwise, not now that the fightin’s over an’ done with. ‘T’weren’t that long ago, though, when I stood on his Grace’s castle wall, a good length o’ steel in me hand...(and my balls in me throat...)and laid all about me into the enemy. Sent plenty o’ men to meet their maker, I done. Kilt and all.
Ah…I see it in yer eyes. Ye likes talk of the fightin’ do you lad? Have a proper hate for the Scot, do you? Well mine’s a tale worth tellin’, then, if ye’ve the mind to hear it. In fact, what say you and I…
Thank ye lass…I’ll just…err…must ha’ left it with my saddle bags. Ne’er mind. I’ll fetch it later and pay ye then. What? I’m good fer it, lass. Sergeant in the King’s army, don’t you know. Leastwise, I used ta be. Now, now. Don’t get all uppity on me (unless ye mean business…and let’s save that fer later). Perhaps my new good friend here will stand me the coin ‘til I go fer a whiz or check on my horse. Thanks lad. Much appreciated. I’ll pay ye back, don’t ye worry. Ol’ John’s an honest soldier and doesn’t forget his debts.
Great bosom, that…
Now where was I? Fightin’? Yes. I done plenty o’ that in my time. All the way from the Thames ta Loch Shin an’ then some. I’ll tell ye what, boy. Ye just settle back and I’ll give ye my story. Don’t ye worry, lad. Ye’ll get yer fill of bloodshed in the hearin’…and a few of my more glorious private battles, if ye’ve the mind to here ‘em – if ye catch my drift? It’s not only the men that raise their skirts up in the north, ye see. (A bit slow, but he does catch on eventually.) Pour some of that heavenly stuff in my tankard, lad, cause it’s a devil ta do it with just the one hand and I’ve a mighty thirst on me - on account of all that dust on the road.
My thanks, again, boy. God’s blessing upon ye an’ all that.
Come ta think on it, there was a lad just like ye - name of James, or Harry, or Robby or somewhat…I forget which at the moment – but he looked just like ye. He’s dead now, poor bugger - caught an arrow in the lung at the siege of some bloody place or other...took him two weeks ta die…horrible way ta go, don’t ye know…all black and puss-filled like he’d been rotting there for all those days and just didn’t know it – but before that, when he was hale and hearty, the boy sure knew how ta treat ol’ Sarge, he did. Stood me ta many a pint during the campaigns, he did…and the occasional price of a wench. Pity he had ta go an’ get hisself killed like that. A damned cryin’ shame. A toast, lad. Raise yer vessel to the memory of young…whatshisname…God rest his soul. A fine, fine lad…and there was never a finer…
But ye wanted ta hear talk of war, din’t ye? Well at the battle at Dun….but there I go again. Always putin’ the cart before the horse, as my Pa used ta say – not that we had neither, bein’ poor as we was, but he meant it figurative-like, don’t ye know. We had a mule, once, mind ye. Pa got him from the miller but he ended up on our dinner table soon enough – the mule, that is, not the miller – all because of the cost of the grain you understand…not ‘cause he was good fer eatin’. Not good at all. Pretty lean by then. Lean and stringy…
Where was I? Oh. Right. Well, it’s best to start these things from the beginnin’, I always say, and make a clean breast of it. And speakin’ of breasts – and a lovely pair on that wench over there, don’t ye think - that’s where my story really begins.
Rosa was her name…
