CHAPTER
1: TRIANGLE OF LOVE
Copyright: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard, Edinburgh, October 2017
I
am Anna, the White Witch
of the Esk Burn, an interpreter
of souls for the omniscient Goddess Asherah
who watches us from the celestial
Sea of Yam as if we were the cells of
an infinitely astute,
ever expanding brain.
The
white witches are women of learning who date, in
their various guises, to pre-Babylonian
antiquity. We worship nature, and collect
herbs and spices to cure the animals, the birds,
and the people. Many Christians persecute us and say
wicked lies about us, because they want
to control mankind while abusing nature.
I
bring you a comic tragedy of a saga
which focuses on the
wandering Scottish knight, Sir Richard de
Liddell, a scatterbrained oracle of Christendom.
It is about the kaleidoscope of enigmatic
souls who entered hither and thither into the
contrasting phases of Richard's life, which
moved between the high places and the
deep depths, and about the manner in
which his fortunes were affected by divinely inspired chance
in ways that will make your hair bristle in
horrence.
The
thoughts and emotions expressed between
people, animals and plants influence the workings
of the entire world. I will describe
sensitive human feelings in
their full diversity and as Asherah perceives
them to be, rather than as the controlling mortal
forces wish us to suppose them to be. Everything I
recount will be according to Asherah's unique perceptions, in
particular of the thoughts of all mortals as they
reflect on each other and catalyse humankind and the wisdom of the
gods above.
But
beware, ye citizens of the future, of a dire warning from the Vates
themselves! Do not feel tempted to visit the scant remains of the
House on the Holy Trinity on Scotland's Soutra Hill under any
circumstances. Why not? Because the black eschar dust which causes
the dreaded sheep sweat is still mixed in the soil. The black eschar
dust which killed so many patients in the great medical hospital on
the Soutra remains there until eternity, waiting to destroy any poor
soul who might besmirch his hands with it.
A
rabbi wrapped in a shabby tallit was approached by a Scottish knight
whilst he stumbled up the cobbled Canongate, east of fair Embro and
of the castle high on the extinct volcano.
“Shalom
to you, my Rabbi,” said Sir Richard de Liddell, with a polite bow.
“Shalom
to you, my Rabbi and teacher,” came the encouraging reply.
“Foos
yer doos [How're you doing], Father?” asked Sir Richard, fondling
his crucifix.
“Aye
peckin, aye peckin. I'm here visiting from Dene.”
“That's
a pretty village!”
“It
flows upon the Water of Leith while the city of Embro flows up and
beyond. Is there any way I can be of help?”
“Prithee!
There is. Please excuse my presumption, Father, but could you
possibly explain why there are so few Jews in Scotland?”
“I
don't rightly know, my son,” responded the rabbi, rubbing his
greying beard. “For myself, I was expelled from Paris in 1396 by
King Charles's infamous edict. My cousin was expelled from Rouen as a
tiny girl. Those here were, methinks, already here, though a
stone-cutter arrived from La Rochelle during the purge of 1291.”
“And
have the Jews been well treated by we Scots?”
“Better
than by the English, who mistreated even our followers of Ariel's
New Way. My great great grandfather was burnt in Durham for his
semantics.”
“How
terrible!” exclaimed Sir Richard. “But prithee! What is this New
Way of Jerusalem?”
“It
is the earliest form of Christianity, which the Children of Israel
created as part of their own religion, my son. During the first
century A.D., a group of Jewish activists, including Matthew the Tax
Collector, Mark the Interpreter, and Luke the Physician, composed
liturgies that greatly enlarged upon the mortal life of the Prophet
Jesus. They added many wise sayings, numerous accounts of miracles
and magical healings, and some grim descriptions of the end of the
world.”
“How
wise of them! Those accounts should never have been omitted in the
first place.”
“I
suppose not,” the rabbi tactfully replied, with a sigh. “The
liturgies were read out loud on each weekly Sabbath throughout the
year in many of our synagogues, and were much later incorporated into
Christianity and published in three Gospels in your New Testament.”
“Matthew,
Mark, and Luke! I'm sure that the Pharisees hated those activists.”
“We
think in similar terms, my son. Many Pharisees believed that the
followers of Ariel's New Way were too progressive in the way they
challenged the traditional values on behalf of the poor, sick, and
vulnerable. That created a debate within Judaism itself.”
Sir
Richard flicked his eyebrows. “But within two or three centuries,
many progressive early Christian bishops were preaching the essential
importance of nurturing the poor and hungry, and of frowning upon the
wealth mongers who exploit them.”
“That
is true indeed,” agreed the rabbi. “Basil of Caesarea was a
shining light.”
Sir
Richard paused for a few seconds, and stared down the Canongate
towards Holyrood Palace.
“Prithee,
my dear learned Rabbi,” he inquired, as tactfully as he could, “if
Jewish people started our religion in this superb way, then why are
they disliked by so many Christians who should know better?”
“That's
because many people want to blame us for their ills, my son,” the
rabbi wearily replied. “It helps them to excuse their perceived
lack of success.”
“That's
very unfair,” said the insightful knight,” particularly as you
are the chosen people of Almighty God.”
“We,
as a proud diaspora, were chosen to bring peace and harmony to this
troublesome world. Maybe Gaulle was our greatest achievement, until
the Caesars destroyed everything.”
“But
is there such thing as peaceful Kingdom, Holy Father?”
The
rabbi's eyes glistened for fully several seconds, and a tear rolled
down his cheek.
“You
speak with the wisdom of the Prophets, child of Bethlehem,” he
murmured. “We should, at the very least, bear the peaceful Kingdom
in mind.”
“I
would like to meet more Jews like you,” said Sir Richard. “Methinks
they will influence my life for the better.”
“If
you marry a Jewish girl, then your children will be Jews.”
“But
I am, to my good fortune, married to my darling Ingibiorg from
Orkney.”
“May
she bear fruit, my son, and your seed multiply and prosper. And now I
must hurry. We are about to bury Jacob on his chosen ground.”
“May
he rise in glory!”
“Maybe
he will just stare at the stars.”
[Author's
Notes: Ariel is an alternative name for Jerusalem (see
Isaiah 29,1-8). For a detailed discussion of the
first century Jewish liturgies which underpin the Synoptic Gospels,
see Biblical Literalism: A Gentile Heresy by John
Shelby Spong (Harper Collins, 2016).]
Sir
Richard de Liddell adored his wife the Lady Ingibiorg who he'd
met outside St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall on Orkney during
the Spring of 1430. Ever
since that first, heavenly
stroll around the ancient
stones of the Ring of
Brodgar, he'd
adored the way she walked, the way she talked, and
the way she stalked through the gardens of Óengus
House hunting the mice, grass-snakes
and ferrets.
Sir
Richard cherished his French
squire Cedric de
Porthos who he met while visiting
the de
Liddell
family vineyard in the
Algarve in 1434.
He cherished the way Cedric
rode, the way he strode, and the way he recited rich
ballads from his childhood in
the Pyrenees.
Sir
Richard and Lady Ingibiorg
were both descended
from Earl Finn Árnason of
Norway; Richard's
ancestors included Queen Ingibiorg of Scotland, and the similarly
ill-fated FitzDuncan line which descended from the Scottish kings.
His issue,
when and if
it was forthcoming, would therefore be of the Holy Bloodline
of Mary
Magdalene and Christ
themselves.
Lady
Ingibiorg loved her husband Sir Richard for his manliness, his
prowess, and his dedication to the Scottish realm. She cherished
Cedric for his impertinence,
his dedication to his friendships, and
the way he leapt feet-first
off his sleek
pony onto her doorstep.
Cedric
loved Lady Ingibiorg for her kindness, her beauty, and her
willingness to cook cakes and dainty pastries to tempt his palate and
his mind. He adored Sir Richard for everything he was.
The
omniscient Asherah enjoyed reclining on her raft on the Sea of Yam
with her pet rabbit Noah
while observing the thoughts
and emotions which interplayed between the three lovers in Edinburgh.
So
intense was their triangle of
love: a love which
transcended all human desire, a love of which all the ancient gods
would've
been proud.
During
the Summer of 1436, the passions became more intense, and the Roman
goddesses banqueting
on their gilded
couches held their breath, and
laid their bets.
'Twas
during the early hours of St. Achilleus's Day during September 1436
that Sir Richard set off southwards astride his battle horse for the
evocative slopes of the Soutra Hill, from his higgledy-piggledy,
curiously designed house on Queen Maud Walk in fair Embro. Sir
Richard was accompanied by his squire Cedric de Porthos who was
riding his new pony with the eagerness of precocious youth. Cedric
was modestly dressed in a woollen tunic, like many a Scottish yeoman,
and with hose which stretched half-way below his knobbly knees.
Educated
at the Grammar School of the Church of Edinburgh and the University
of St. Andrew's, and now aged twenty-six, sandy-haired Richard was
becoming a touch more brawny and thickset, though he well remembered
the days when he was as lithe and clean-limbed as black-haired
Cedric.
Richard
was such a prankster in those Halcyon days. He once caused an
almighty radge when he decked a worthy wool merchant's clothes line
with silk petticoats and pretty lace knickers. The merchant's wife
and all the other ladies rioted down the Canongate.
Sir
Richard's wife the Lady Ingibiorg, the fulsome, youngest daughter of
the Earl of Stromness, blew kisses at both of the riders from the
pentagonal window above the copper-plated porch-way, took another sip
of her well-heated honey mead, buttoned up her purple petticoat, and
smiled at Fergus the Ferret who was performing a forwards roll on her
Persian rug.
Lady
Ingibiorg had lost a daughter in childbirth and a son in the womb.
Now she was trying intensely hard for a healthy bairn by the
following summer. That prospect appealed greatly to her good husband.
Cedric
grinned like a Tiree fold-cat, his ears bending forwards like an
owl's, and the seven-horned gargoyle on the parapet girned
toothlessly back. As a Celt from ancient Bayonne, close to the
Pyrenees in southern Aquitaine, he was well versed in matters of the
heart.
I
know where my love's invested, he thought. We have our own
special trinity.
Two
peacocks for the price of one, fantasised
Lady Ingibiorg. I'll try to dream up a special way of
celebrating their return. Maybe I'll conjure up a
Greco-Scythian festival of sorts,
involving all sorts of Roman sports.
“We'll
spend the night on the Soutra,” announced Sir Richard, flapping his
hands at the murky clouds, “but we'll return by noon the morrow to
enjoy your fine cookery. We could play a game of Royal Court
Trickery in the evening.”
“God
bless ye pious man of God!” cried his good wife, cocking a snook.
“I'll take the role of the princess of the faeries and you can be
Prince Cud.”
“He
resembles a cow. I'd prefer to be King Cole, and Cedric can be Prince
Fuming,”
God
has indeed poured blessings upon me, realised Sir Richard.
Ingibiorg is my warrior princess, such a
loving wife, and Cedric is the Adonis of my dreams.
I love him like Plato admired his pupil Aristotle. But
was that an apparition which I saw in my
bedchamber the other night? And would I really
care if Cedric was a Lancelot to my
Guinevere? Zooterkins!
A
few minutes after her husband's and his squire's jovial departure,
Lady Ingibiorg rummaged in her closet and found her small marble
statuette of The Three Goddesses
Entwined hidden under
a pile of woolly blankets. She put the statuette on the rug in her
boudoir, nestled on the couch with her favourite set of beads, and
relaxed.
Why
are my tastes so diverse?
wondered the soulful Ingibiorg. Maybe it's because of the
traumas of my childhood which were precursed in
Isaiah's Jerusalem, and Gomorrah afore. How cruel my
tormentor was! However, methinks it's really
because I'm an all nurturing
Mother Goddess in disguise.
As
he rode
into the countryside with
his jolly squire,
Sir Richard thought about his blood relatives, and wiped his brow in
despair.
As
the younger brother of the
Lord of Roslands, Sir Richard
occasionally visited the extensive family estate outside Duns in
Berwickshire, but
his relationship with his
brother had recently become
unduly
strained.
The
irritating lord was one of
the many Scottish nobles who'd schemed and plotted against the king.
Moreover,
Richard's tenure
of Malbork House, a
sprawling
Teutonic mansion in Bothans,
East Lothian,
within an arrow's shot of
Yester Castle,
where he was born, and once
owned by the de Giffards of Yester, was
now in dispute. His father had left the
thousand-year lease of the
mansion to Richard
in his will, along with ownership
of Óengus
House in
Edinburgh, and the St.
Clotilde herb
garden which lay in the
shadows of Calton Hill.
However, the Lord of Roslands
discovered a quirk in an
ancient Celtic law of inheritance which, he claimed,
gave him the
rights to all the family
property in the vicinity of the Lammermuirs.
The
rude and crude behaviour of the
lord's yowling eleven year
old son Lulach also got on
Sir Richard's wick.
Sir
Richard realised that he was,
by and large,
highly esteemed
in Edinburgh. As a Knight of the Sacred Orb of Jerusalem, he'd sided
with the mean-spirited James
the First during the King's continuing struggle against the
rebellious nobles, and helped him to arrest the nefarious Baron
of Strontian and
to hang
him
high on
the tall white
poles at Ballachulish.
Sir
Richard took
pride in the influence he
exerted around Scotland as
a Privy Councillor, though
he at
times
caused antagonism
among peasants
and landowners alike. As
one of the seven Judges of the Royal
Court, he'd condemned
many
a witch and more
than a few wizards to burn at the stake.
Sir
Richard knew
that the
vengeful King James'
credibility had been badly damaged during
August 1436 by his abject
failure to take Roxburghe
Castle (from which the
rapacious English had pillaged the surrounding countryside, and put
Lauder, Selkirk and Jedburghe to the torch),
thus leaving the English in control to the south of the Tweed. That
scenario left Sir Richard somewhat in limbo and he'd
decided to leave his lance and battleaxe in his dovecot until they
might once again serve godly
purpose.
The
rising sun was spreading
its refreshing
rays over Blackford Pond
when
the early morning
riders entered the Hermitage
of Braid. When they reached the Braid Burn, a bare-breasted
girl with the appearance of a ragamuffin
leapt from
the branch of a Skye flora ash tree and
puffed her chest.
“A
tonic
of beauty potion for a groat, good Masters,”
she did offer.
“My
virtues for a penny.”
“Are
you a witch?” asked Sir Richard, caustically.
“Not
yet, Sire,” replied the
girl, furtively. “I'm Adaira McTaggart.
I'm an orphan from Bruchton, where my parents died starving
in the village
tollbooth.
I'm trying to redeem my soul among the wood nymphs.”
“You
may sleep in my dovecot tonight then,” said
Sir Richard, with a saucy grin. “Present
thyself
to my wife, the Lady Ingibiorg
de Liddell at Óengus
House before the clock strikes nine. She
enjoys an occasional tumble on
her feather couch
with a buxom lass.
And here's a groat for your
potion.”
“Thank
you, kind Sire, and I admire your God-given penchants too. I'll
nurture you in your dotage, while you piddle
in your breeks and slaver in your mouth.”
“Gad's
budlikins! A mottle-head of hedgehog spines for your cheek!”
“They
would be well taken. And a healing potion for your squire's red
flush, perchance?”
“That
won't be necessary,” said Cedric, blushing all over, “but here's
two pennies for your virtues, my fine lady.”
“May
a thousand blessings rain upon your head, kind youth. Did God endow
you well? A frolic in the burn, perchance?”
Cedric
leapt gleefully
from his pony, and threw off his breeks.
“I'll
swim you
to the bridge,” he announced.
“J'adore
tes courbes,”
she blandly replied,
and he squirmed in delight at such a totally impolite
suggestion.
Sir
Richard sat on a grassy knoll and sipped his beauty potion while
Cedric and Adaira splashed about in the burn, as well-dressed to God
as a buck and a doe.
They're
so like Ingibiorg and me when we first met,
he mused,
though Cedric is slightly more
dashing.
Adaira
emerged panting like a rabbit
from the burn. “A
favour for you before
I leave, Sire?”
Sir
Richard glanced sideways, and
coyly lifted
the tails of his shirt.
“You
may kiss the tattoo in the small of my back, as
is my secret wont,”
he murmured. “The
dormouse and the hedgehog are from my family coat-of-arms, and
the inscription is Simplicitate et
Veritate.”
Adaira
gritted her teeth, and
nibbled the heraldic inscription.
“A
rare, though boring fetish. I will gladly oblige.”
“Boring?
It is my raison d'être.”
“Simplicity
and Truth!” exclaimed Adaira, cautiously
kissing the hedgehog.
“But why is the name
Horatio P. engraved beneath your crest?”
“'Tis
a code by which my family may identify me should I die in battle,”
replied the proud knight. “Horatio
P. was my grandfather's great
uncle of Inverness.”
“But
is your good wife Ingibiorg a woman
of learning, Sire?” inquired Adaira, tactfully changing the
subject.
Sir
Richard proffered the lass a gentle smile. “Yes, she is. She is a
composer of poetry and sings Psalms with the clarsach.”
“In
that case, I would be interested in meeting her,” said Adaira,
licking the dormouse, “though she might treat me with disdain.”
“Believe
me, she won't.”
“Let's
go!” enthused
Cedric, remounting his pony with
aplomb.
“I'm
glad you enjoyed your frolic too,”
said Sir Richard, preening
himself, “though I must
confess to experiencing a feeling of déjà vu.”
“I
don't know why,” said Cedric, looking mighty confused.
“Don't
forget your breeks,” said Sir Richard, with a frosty smile.
“Waesucks!
My memory should serve me better.”
“You'd
look better in a woollen dress.”
Now
there's an interesting suggestion, deliberated Cedric. I could
wear my grandmother's drawers as well.
When
the riders emerged
from
the Hermitage
of Braid, Sir Richard started
to think about his reasons for his trip to Soutra Hill.
The physicians and
Augustinian
monks at the House
of the Holy Trinity cared for
the sick and the dying. The vast
conglomeration of buildings,
which included an Iron Age
drystone broch, also housed
travellers and gave sanctuary to fugitives from
miles around who
had reason to doubt their safety in
Holyrood Abbey (where the
Holy Inquisitor
reputedly
enjoyed sending
suspicious-looking
guests from
beyond the Girth Cross
howling in their lice-ridden
sackcloths down
to the Athollian Crypt).
Sir
Richard was travelling with his monthly selection of herbs for the
sick from the St. Clotilde Garden, which he gladly donated in lieu
of alms
for the poor. However, he had
far deeper reasons for his mission. While
the friar on Soutra
Hill was
keen to protect all arguably innocent fugitives from justice against
possibly unfair arrest, he gladly identified
the most dastardly ones to
Sir Richard, so that
the
loyal
knight could report them to
the Crown agents in Edinburgh. In
particular, many
of the cowardly traitors
seeking
sanctuary on the Soutra
would subsequently mysteriously disappear. There's no peace for the
wicked!
Who
knows who is right and who is wrong? mused
Sir Richard. Truth is whatever you can get away with. Truth
is like a hare in a cornfield, as the heretic
Peter the Seeker once said. You know it's
there but you can't put your arms around it. All you can hope for is
to follow its footprints. Heaven knows who is telling the truth in
this day and age.
When
they
reached Cockpen, Sir Richard wondered whether to greet his cousin,
Sir Leofric de Liddell in Dalhousie Castle, even though awkward
Leofric was
rumoured to
be opposed
to the king.
Sir
Richard was still ruminating
on these
possibilities
when two slovenly
men wearing
straggly, black
cloaks and riding grey mares
emerged across the castle
drawbridge at a fair gallop. They
came to an abrupt halt just in front of the smartly
dressed travellers.
“Why,
good morrow, de Porthos,”
said the
man with the strange foreign accent and
a mean
look.“Is this the
trumped up knight
who now employs you as a
foot-licking
snoop?”
This
vulgar vagabond could be a French or a Teuton
agent, thought Sir Richard, with
a rude belch. His
almond-shaped eyes are
very distinctive, and I'll certainly be able to remember him from the
dirty holes in his front teeth. Maybe the
English have tortured him in the Tower of London like they
torment the ghastly
heretics.
Meanwhile,
Cedric was concerned that Sir Richard might discover the shady
secrets of his past.
My
master will shred my hide and boil my guts, he
agonized.
“How
dare you!” spluttered handsome
Cedric.
“I am Sir Richard's faithful squire,
and we are here to see his worthy cousin Sir Leofric de Liddell.”
“We
have plans for you, de Porthos,” growled
the man with the bizarre northern
accent, “unless you want to be hung like
a nose-less woman
from a lofty
tree, that is. Come to the Grassmarket, you
cowardly, half-formed
galoot! Saturday, before
the clock strikes noon, and
while the flayed skins are still wavering
in the wind.”
I'm
not sure whether he's from Lancashire or Dumfries,
deliberated
Sir Richard, but his face is as swarthy as a cat's nates.
“I'd
love to accept your kindly
invitation,” replied Cedric, gritting his teeth, “were
I not on my way to visit my
dying grandmother in Kelso.”
“Balderdash!”
replied the rogue.
“That witch resides in
Nantes, along with the rest of you inbred
guttersnipes.”
“Excuse
me, kind gentlemen,” interjected Sir Richard, “but is my good
cousin Sir Leofric in
residence?”
“Oui,
malfaisant m'sieur,
though not
wishing to receive
any of his heathen
kin,
your noble
brother the Lord of
Roslands excepted,” replied the man with almond-shaped eyes. “Why
don't you go forth and sizzle
in the stench
of the Styx while
I deflower your shrewish whore
of a wife?”
What
a devil of a bore! raged
Cedric. I'd like to deflower his ugly face.
“Kindly
present yourselves at
my chambers on St. Giles when
you next visit Edinburgh,” growled Sir Richard, grasping
the silver hilt of his steel sword Vindicta. “You'll
burn before you hang, and
answer to Beelzebub's pitchfork in
your gut for your venomous
tongue.”
The
swarthy horseman flourished his iron mace.
“Egads!”
he snarled.
“Maybe you'll hang from
your toes while
you burn in Hellfire,
pompous nastiness
of a knight, though I have
something more apt
in mind.”
“Away
with thee, Pimp of Babylon!”
roared Sir Richard, spitting
snake's venom, whilst
his enormous
steed reared to a mighty
height on its hind legs.
“Away
with us, from these gutter rats, to where the air is cleaner,”
howled Cedric, and he and his worthy master
departed at full
gallop.
My
master will be giving me shit for my own sins all
evening, agonised poor Cedric.
This
could be part of one of John Malory of Winwick's
sad tales about King Arthur, mused
Sir Richard, though that defiler of women is unbearably
sanctimonious and his plagiarist
of a son follows in his footsteps.
When
they reached the tiny village of Gowkshill, Sir
Richard and Cedric paused in the Ratshead
Inn for their morning ale. A
couple of impoverished pilgrims
from Cullen
who'd stayed overnight in the
dank cellar
were drinking water from a pump. But the nobility avoided well
water like the plague, and regarded beer as much more healthy for
mind and body alike. Sir Richard also ordered a couple of beef
steaks, caramelised with
plenty of onions, from the
wart-ridden
innkeeper.
The
grumpy proprietor
peered at Cedric, and blinked.“That's
Auld Alliance beef rump cordon bleu.
It mixes well with stale
bread.”
“And
no quinkins, if you value
your remaining ear!” retorted Sir Richard.
“There's
no need to be worry-some. I give the flea-ridden dregs to my pet
vole. It makes them dance with joy.”
Cedric
grinned in amusement. “Before they are thrown into your supper pot
with the frogs for better flavour.”
The
innkeeper was distinctly not amused. “I'll throw you into my
cauldron and ask my mother to stir it, muddy-mettled cot-quean that
you are!”
When
the loaf arrived, Sir Richard
tore a strip off it.
Cedric
gulped, and quivered
in his seat in fear of his
master's forthcoming
wrath.
“But
how did you ever come to
meet the
pair of rogues who came so
hastily out of Dalhousie Castle,
insincere
youth that you are?”
Sir Richard sternly
inquired.
“In
Paris during the English
Occupation and two years
whence, while I was working for the Burgundians,” replied Cedric,
shifty-eyed.
“They tried to persuade me to join a
highly
dubious spy
ring. The dim-witted
English rogue said
that he was soldier
from Carlisle;
the mean-faced one was
a double agent from Flanders.”
“Spy
ring? And on whom were they proposing to spy?”
Cedric
trembled in his boots. “They
wanted me to spy on the Burgundians and hence to betray my
paymasters.
I refused, of course.”
“And
what were you doing for the evil Burgundians?”
Cedric
was, by now, besides himself in anxiety.
“Just
collecting information,” he spluttered. “Just collecting
information.”
Sir
Richard frowned angrily at
that lame excuse. “I
understand you
to a measure,
delinquent of
Aquitaine!
But
those vermin
were undoubtedly
anticipating your arrival
in Cockpen. How in Joshua's
name did they know you were
coming?”
“Your
guess is as good as mine,” whined
Cedric, feeling his
sweat.
“Did you tell any of your friends or relatives that we were
planning to take this curious
route this morning? I
presume that you were trying to avoid the parish
of Pathhead after your
brouhaha
there last month.”
“I
told only
my dear Ingibiorg about
my carefully plotted route,”
replied Sir Richard, irritably.
“I sketched it for
her during yesterday's midday repast, just before she met for
prayers with her dear
brother, Father
Baldr
Sigurdsen from Haddington.”
“But
the explanation must
lie therein! Perhaps your horribly
flesh-ridden
brother-in-law visited your
ghastly
kinsman in Cockpen during his
return home.”
“You
rude, uncouth
youth! I'll scrub your mouth
with lard and your face
with vinegar!”
“Or
Father
Baldr
could have bumped into the
two ugly
rascals in some whorehouse
or other.”
“How
dare you! Father Baldr only
visits the most respectable of hostelries. There
must be some better
explanation than that.”
“Perchance
we'll never know. These problems are sent to test us by the Goddess
Fortuna herself.”
“O,
not ever waxing, ever oppressing Fortuna! Shame on you!”
“No
shame. She controls Yahweh himself.”
“Zounds!
It's God Almighty alone who
rolls the die, and not that
pagan usurper, the
evil defiler of Constantine's
Constantinople! I'll have you
foot-flogged for the blaspheming
infidel you are.”
“Sorry,
Master, just a slip of the tongue, Master. Please
don't send me to be foot-flogged,
Master. Not my
feet, Master!”
“Don't
forget to wash them
when you next trim your
toenails.”
“Elijah
wept balls of fire! You're pulling my leg!”
“No
I'm not, though methinks
it's
not your feet which should sweat
in dread.”
“Not
that!
Mercy! Mercy!”
“Aha!
The steak is excellent. It sizzles like a bumble bug.”
“The
onions are tastier to my palate,” Cedric miserably
replied, throwing his steak
at the guard dog. The tawdry
mongrel took a sniff, and ran, spluttering, towards the water trough.
“Take
care, Cedric de Porthos,
or you too will lead the life of dog,” concluded Sir Richard, with
his hand on his Celtic
crucifix.
As
they were about to leave the
Ratshead Inn, the
not-so-congenial
companions were approached by a bony-faced itinerant dressed in rags.
“I
am the Prophet Ishmael MacHagar of Shur,” mithered
the confused fellow. “The next Jew you meet will be a doctor of
learning.”
“You
may well be right,” replied Sir Richard, with a smile. “If
God
is kind to me, I'll bump into
one
on
the Soutra.”
“And
the next two will haul you naked and
starving off the streets,”
added the somewhat irritated fellow, “and many diverse Levites
and Benjaminites
will thenceforth
enter your bedchamber
as they did in Gibeah,
concubine
of the closet that you are.”
“Why
thank you,
kind soothsayer,”
replied Sir Richard, throwing
a coin which snicked the
itinerant's nose, “and now
we must be on our Godly way.”
“And
you will found a dynasty to rival Nebuchadnezzar!” howled the crazy
fellow, but Sir Richard had already closed his purse.
Sir
Richard and his sullen-faced squire uttered
scarcely a word while pursuing
a narrow, muddy trail across Mid-Lothian.
Indeed, the sheep muttered
ne'er a 'baa', and
the cattle stared at the turf.
When
they reached the Via Regia south
of Pathhead, Sir Richard scowled, and said, 'Awake,
and straight ahead,
sleepyhead!”
Cedric
cheered
up slightly during the late
morning
when they
turned off the Via
Regia for a rest
stop in
the pretty
village of Fala. The Lady Fiona McLachlan was sitting astride her
white horse Buttermilk
outside the manse,
ensconced on
her lavishly designed
Clackmannan saddle, peering
at the rugged, green slopes of Soutra Hill to the south.
Roughly
the same youthful
age as Cedric, the Lady Fiona boasted flowing bright red hair, a
freckly face, and the pert
breasts of a Scottish
gentlewoman.
Cedric
sat in his saddle, licked his chops,
and admired
Lady Fiona's fleshy legs
Sir
Richard was quick to perceive Cedric's
none too delicate eye movements.
He's
insatiable, agonized Sir
Richard, and his
manhood resembles a horse.
I'd
love to chew cud with her in a haystack,
mused Cedric, fluttering his eyelashes. It would give me
such a relaxed feeling all over.
“Good
morrow, Lady Fiona,” exclaimed the proud Sir Richard. “What
brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Your
greetings are well received, Knight of the Sacred Orb,” replied
Lady Fiona, with a sultry heave of her breasts. “I am travelling to
the House of the Holy Trinity, though the reason for my mission much
grieves me.”
Is
she with child? wondered
Sir Richard. Her husband is an irksome fellow. He
smokes opium with the bizzoms on the Cowgate, and she could be
forgiven for seeking her pleasures with one of his brash
retainers. Her belly does protrude a mite too much for my
comfort.
“In
that case, perhaps you would give us the pleasure of riding with us,
my fine lady,” replied the
bold knight. “This
wicked miscreant and
I are travelling there to deliver herbs for the sick from my
delightful garden
by Calton Hill.”
“You
are far too
harsh on your
lovely squire,
good knight,”
said Lady Fiona, with a sorrowful
smile. “He is as faithful to you as the day is long.”
“My
good Lord will be the judge of that when I pray to Him during
Vespers,” said Sir
Richard, with a deft
flick of his horse whip. “Our
worthy Messiah isn't as
forgiving towards those who
blaspheme as St. Paul, in
all his crassness, would have
us believe.”
Cedric
shuffled
queasily
in his saddle. “I too,
would enjoy your charming company, my
lady.
The sound
of a nightingale is to be much preferred to the squawk of a
spot-tailed sparrowhawk.”
“And
the tweet of a sparrow pleases me more than than..er..the
screech of a cornered
rat,” added Sir Richard, a
touch irritably.
To
the courteous knight's surprise and his squire's expressions of
sadness and alarm, Lady Fiona suddenly burst into a Noah's flood of
crocodile's tears.
“But
woe is me, Sir Richard, eternal woe,” she exclaimed. “My dear
husband of Comely Brae
is bestricken with St. Cornelius's
Lurge, and the
scatter-brained
sheriff-depute bethinks that
it is I who poisoned him with a
spider and snail potion. I therewith
escaped from Edinburgh in fear of being captured
by the burly
sheriff's officers
and burnt as
a witch. If the good monks on the Soutra do not grant me sanctuary
then I will, unless God
forbids it, suffer horror
and anguish in
ever eternal
Hellfire, and
Merlin's freezing
ice for
good measure.”
“Becalm
yourself, fair lady, and dry your pretty eyes,” replied Sir
Richard, pressing his hands
together as if in prayer.
“The blustery
sheriff-depute frequently
finds
the wrong end of the donkey.
We will accompany you to the Soutra and into the
saintly friar's safe hands,
and I will then defend your
case for you in Edinburgh.”
“And
do give
your nose a good blow,” interjected
Cedric, proffering the lady his sodden
lace handkerchief.
Lady
Fiona cleared her nostrils.
“Why thank you, kind
squire, and a peck
on my cheek from an impudent
garçon would not go
amiss.”
Cedric
rode to the brave damsel's
side and stuck out his Gallic
tongue, like the
unsophisticated
juvenile
he was.
“Here's
a kiss on your lips to absolve all your sins,” he
cheekily replied. “Maybe
it will help you to clear your throat.”
“Coo!...Coo!
You make me coo like a cuckoo. Let me lean on your sturdy arm.”
“And
I will ask my new
pony to protect your white
steed
well tonight, fair lady. Methinks
I'll call him 'Augustus' to honour the occasion.”
“Buttermilk
will be well bedded then,” purred the Lady Fiona. “I
have a mind to cuddle
between them to
maintain
my good virtue.”
Cedric
smiled mischievously.
“You
have the thighs of a doe in
the heather,” he replied, jerking
his knees like a grasshopper.
Lady
Fiona flapped her yellow and green cloak like a butterfly. “And
j'adore your
frog-like circumscription,
joli garçon.”
“You
should quat all your curious
quirks, quisquous
[dubious]
squire,” enjoined
Sir Richard, nibbling his tongue, “and now it's time to roll
into action. Let's
go!”
While
the motley trio were approaching the Soutra, the scruffy lass Adaira
McTaggart tapped lightly on the kitchen door of Óengus
House back in Edinburgh.
A middle aged retainer with gums and no teeth let her in, and went to
find Lady Ingibiorg.
“How
fair thee, comely lassie?” asked Ingibiorg, strolling in barefoot
wearing her white and green silk gown.
“Your
sweet husband tells me that you are a poetress of Lesbos,” fibbed
Adaira. “I would love to listen to your recital, and to learn of
your Psalms.”
“Now
I understand,” said Ingibiorg with a knowing look. “Come to my
boudoir, and all will be revealed.”
Lady
Ingibiorg sat Adaira down on the velvet cushioned stool by her fluffy
bed, and recited her adaption of a traditional Irish blessing:
“May
the road rise up to meet you
May
the wind be always at your back
May
the sun shine warm upon your face
The
rain fall soft upon your fields
And
until we meet again, may God
Hold
you in the palm of his hand.
And
raise you from the coasts you love
To
the orchards in the Heavens.”
“How
apt!” exclaimed Adaira, tilting
her bonnie head. “And you
composed the last two
lines your very self!”
“You
are very knowledgeable too,” Ingibiorg coolly conceded. “You
would be most welcome to stay for fish and a hot turnip. We could
play music on my clarsach together afterwards to sooth our minds.”
“Are
you familiar with the tunes of the dastardly Pink Witch of Castle
Trilloch?” Adaira craftily inquired.
“That
woman?” snorted Ingibiorg. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“In
that case, I'd gladly stay for the braw moonlicht nicht,”
said Adaira, with a seductive twitch of her hips.
And
Father Baldr Sigurdsen of Haddington drooled over a fallen angel
after he'd paid his coin in the dire hostelry behind the blessed Kirk
of St. Michael's in delightful Linlithgow.
Sigurdsen
pulled up his breeks and scratched his pated noddle. “I do delight
in your shapely, bouncing body, my cherub. Now who do you best remind
me of?”
“One
more time?” begged the desperate woman.
“I
do not have a mind to it.”
“Why
not?”
“
You're
so much older than my dearest love petal and your skin is lest
couth,” said the decadent priest. “Goodbye and farewell!”
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CHAPTER 2
