CHAPTER 2: THE HOUSE OF THE HOLY TRINITY

CHAPTER 2: THE HOUSE OF THE HOLY TRINITY

Copyright: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard, Edinburgh, October 2017

                                                                    

Sir Richard felt at peace with himself by the time the three riders left Mid-Lothian and approached the northern slopes of the Soutra Hill in Roxburgheshire. He was, as always, impressed by the immense walled citadel that surrounded the summit of the relatively flat hill. Above its walls there arose a lofty church tower and the gables and chimneys of many fine buildings some of which dated to the twelfth century and the reign of the pious King Malcolm the Fourth.

The House of the Holy Trinity contained an Augustinian monastery and a hospital, and stood well over 300 elbows above the level of the sea. The sprawling conurbation on Soutra Hill spread to the south as far as Cross-chain-hill. and included also the village of Sowtry [or Soutra].

The weary riders left the Via Regia and entered the hallowed grounds when they reached the North Gate, in sight of the Ternity Well. Thereupon, they galloped their steeds past several hospital buildings and through the ornate, bronze gateway which protected the entrance to the friary. The elegant building was, according to an imaginative pilgrim en route to Walsingham, dominated by a silver dome, though any resemblance to a Moorish mosque was in the eye of the sacrilegious beholder.

The hospital on the Soutra was financed from the Master, Thomas de Lawedre's vast revenue from lands across the south of Scotland which had been gifted over the centuries by wealthy Scottish families who'd benefited either from treatment there or when one of their rebellious members took refuge in the Iron Age broch.

The riders dismounted at the very moment that a physician with a large, unkempt beard was walking by on his way back to work. Sir Richard respected him as a former student of medicine at the University of Montpellier in Provence and as a skilled barber surgeon.

“Bonjour, Henri,” said Sir Richard, with a courteous wave of his hand. “How fares the brave knight with the green pox in his legs? When I last saw him, the fly maggots did not seem to be eating sufficiently into his flesh.”

“The maggots died of the horrific poison,” replied the genial Henri Lustiger, straightening his kippah, “but the wretched knight recovered after I amputated his legs beneath the knee. He's back riding his steed, and in fine fettle.”

“Shiver my timbers! The surgery must have caused him bundles of grief.”

Henri tugged his side-locks, both together. “Too true, but he was well drugged with opium and a blend of worts, and my long saw was carefully crafted in Genoa. His legs dropped off clean as a whistle.”

“God praise you for your aptitude, cher Henri.”

He's such a fine Jewish scholar, mused Sir Richard, rubbing his forehead, a man of foresight and talent. The prophet at the Ratshead Inn foresaw him correctly, but I wonder whether and when I'll be rescued off the streets by the next two Jews in my life?

                                                                       

Cedric jangled the bronze bell which was hanging from a chain by the sturdy oak door. After a few moments, the door creaked open and an immature girl with curly, blonde hair peered, cowering, at the travellers.

“Brother Stephanus!” she whined. “We have some noble visitors. Do tidy yourself up, and come to greet them.”

A lassie in the friary! thought Sir Richard. How preposterous. I feel like giving this holy brother a generous piece of my mind.

“Hold your horses, Kate Sprat,” cried a shrill voice. “I be alighting the St. Agnes candles.”

The travellers waited in polite silence for a few moments, whereupon a clownish, rusty-haired monk wearing a white cassock, slightly askew around his neck, appeared at the door reeking of ale. He was holding two candles with burnt wicks in his gnarled left hand.

                                                                             

“Good morrow, honourable gentlefolk,” said Brother Stephanus, scratching his snub snout. “Friar Philpott is tending to the chrysanthemums in the Master's gardens, but you have my holy permission to enter this place of divine sanctity, and await his return. Please shed your muddy clogs; Kate, our new Holy Underling, will clean them in the trough like the dutiful scrubber she is. Thereupon, she will wash your feet in the wooden tub, on pain of God's chastisement if she misses a single speck of sinfulness.”

“God's punishment comes when it is least expected,” replied Sir Richard, holding his temper.

“Such is the fate of a wretched orphan born out of wedlock to a Glesca whore,” warbled the cruel brother.

“Who do I have the honour of addressing?” snarled Sir Richard, clenching his fist.

The boss-eyed monk blinked, and straightened his cassock. “I am Brother Stephanus Le Fleming, recently arrived from Melrose Abbey to bring goodness and life to this place.”

“In sackcloths and with a single piece of baggage,” interjected Kate, with a wry smile.

Le Fleming blandly ignored that remark. “I, like you, Sir, am of noble stock, since I am descended from the Norman Le Flemings of Durham-on-Trent.”

Sir Richard twisted the silver ring on his pinkie. They were all a bunch of heathen scoundrels, he recalled. I wouldn't trust this drunken blaggard with a fisherman's pole or a bishop's barge.

“We must be distant cousins then, unless you are in reality a peasant,” replied the assertive knight “Indeed, the de Liddells are related to every mischief-maker who's been knighted by a king.”

Sir Richard was familiar with the main hall of the friary. He'd often wondered whether it'd been a haunt of errant Knights Templar on their run to nowhere. An elaborate Masonic tracing board was hanging from the wall, and the gargoyles on the ceiling depicted the anguished faces of Satan-worshippers and mythological creatures alike.

Brother Stephanus nodded grudgingly while Kate Sprat poured the visitors refreshing beakers of the locally fermented wine Soutfast.

“The nuns squash the grapes with their well-scrubbed feet,” Kate explained, “those who bother to wash, I mean. At least they don't splash holy widdle in it.”

Sir Richard took a cautious sip. “Lady Fiona McLachlan is here to seek sanctuary in this holy house, though for a few days only while I straighten out her concern about her husband in Edinburgh.”

“She is most welcome,” responded Brother Stephanus, with a surly smile. “Many of our fugitives sleep in the hay in the travellers' broch, where we can bar the door for their safe keeping. However, the Master sometimes deigns to let us accommodate errant ladies of nobility in well-furnished rooms in the St. Celicia's Wing, where they are waited on hand, foot, and knee by the peasant novices. But a gift to God in Heaven of two gold nobles a month helps us to feed the ladies in the manner to which they are so righteously accustomed.”

Sir Richard pulled three nobles from his leather pouch. “I hope that God will bless the Lady Fiona as much for this gift as he blessed the widow in the Temple for handing over her two mites.”

Cedric angrily furrowed his brow. “Lady Fiona could be plied with rare lampreys for a year for that. Zeus is more generous than the God who lives in this pox-ridden place.”

Now my squire is behaving like a tactless oaf, lamented Sir Richard. The unsightly cleric doesn't help either. This friary was very congenial before he appeared on the scene.

“Blasphemy!” shrieked Brother Stephanus, with a wild glare. “We flogged the blasphemous rogues against the railings in Melrose for less. Do not violate our holy etiquettes again, paltry squire, or I'll make you a crown of thorns and whip you in the gallows by the curl beam bushes until your flesh is red and raw.”

“Beaucoup de regrets,” exclaimed Sir Richard. “My good squire sometimes doesn't know how he speaks, and a more faithful Christian have I never met.”

“A pox on his pagan house!” yelled the belligerent cleric.

“Humbug!” howled Cedric, throwing a punch which grazed the monk's ugly nose.

Cedric's dire situation was undoubtedly saved by Fortuna, the Goddess of Chance and Fortune. At Fortuna's express command, the striped owl Mordreda hurtled through the window and perched herself on Brother Stephanus's head.                                                                 

At that very moment, Friar Francis Philpott scurried into the room carrying a large sack of oranges over his shoulder.

Francis Philpott was a gaunt and studious man in his early fifties, with a large cauterized hole in his broken left cheek which had been caused by an English arrow during his tempestuous youth. A dark-haired man with striking blue eyes, he walked with a prominent gait.

“We must eat these oranges quickly,” announced the good friar. “They have just arrived from Seville soaked in spice sherry.”

“Is the skin poisonous?” asked Kate, squeezing her nose. “May I eat it?”

“Of course not, silly child. We'll boil it up with some honey and turn it into a paste.”

“I'll tell Brother Marmaduke to collect the skins after Evensong,” said Brother Stephanus, only for the owl to hop onto his shoulder and take a peck at his right ear.

“Maybe we should call it Marmaduke jelly and serve it with bread and cloves,” said Lady Fiona, with a haughty smile. “It will taste like quince.”

“May I suggest melimelon?” suggested Sir Richard. “That's Greek for honey fruit.”

“It would be pleasanter to my ear to call it marmelada,” added Cedric, touching his privies for good luck. “My Uncle Aloisio might be interested in hawking a quince of that name around Portugal.”

“We'll name it marmelada, crass, blasphemous fleshmonger that you are,” Brother Stephanus grudgingly conceded. “The Portuguese consul is one of our patrons, and he will, methinks, welcome the compliment.”

“God's zooks!” exclaimed Sir Richard, touching his forehead. “Be wary lest the cantankerous rogue steals your recipe and sells it in Lisbon.”

                                                                            

Friar Philpott cleared his nostrils, peered frostily at Cedric, and turned his attention to Lady Fiona. “Who is this delicate child, Sir Richard? I'm sure she's blessed with the wisdom of the Queen of Sheba, and Elisheba of the Temple too.”

“That queen had hairy legs, and I'm the smooth-skinned Lady Fiona McLachan of Comely Brae,” replied the sprightly gentlewoman, with a pout. “I plan to stay with your nuns until my dear husband recovers from his lurge and I can return to Edinburgh in good order.”

Friar Francis smiled benignly. “A couple of heavy bolsters and a stout pillow would not go amiss. Please accompany Her Ladyship to St. Cecilia's Wing, Kate, and pay heed to her every whim.”

“Y-Yes, Friar Francis,” stammered Kate, with a clumsy curtsey. “Hummm… m-may I have a new, blue woollen dress for St. Matthew's Day, Your Reverence?”

“Why don't yer wear plaid breeks and clogs?” suggested Brother Stephanus, sardonically. “Yer'd be prettier to the eye as a silly mannie rather than a homely lassie.”

Kate promptly kicked the monk in his shins, while Mordreda took a peck at his eyebrow.

“How could you be so ever more cruel?” shrieked Kate. “May Saint Mary Magdalene curse you to an early grave.”

Brother Stephanus grabbed Kate's hair, and pulled her head backwards.

“How dare you take vent on me, ignorant changeling that you are?” he raged. “You'll be boiled as a black witch for your foul behaviour!”

“Brother Stephanus!” exclaimed Friar Philpott, flashing his bright blue eyes. “You have been drinking a muchness of Donkey's Brew again. Retire to your cell immediately, you cag-brained mule, and recite two hundred Hail Mary’s.”

                                                                    

The monk let Kate go, but seized Mordreda by her outstretched wings.

“Not until I've strangled this God-dammed owl,” he howled. “I wouldn't care if she was the never to be blessed Vièrge Marie herself.”

“What!!” yelled the friar, in utter indignation. “Prepare thyself for self-flagellation during Evensong, foul, blaspheming heretic that you are. We'll sing the Sanctus while you suffer your painful indignities.”

“Un pour tous et tous pour un, enfant terrible,” chanted Cedric, euphorically.

The French tongue was, malheureusement, too much for Brother Stephanus to handle. He was not as well educated as might have been anticipated from the manner in which he displayed himself, despite the fine background of the family who despaired of him.

“Not THAT!” he shrieked, clutching his crotch.

“Foreign vulgarity!” exclaimed Friar Francis, the blood rising in his neck. “We don't use red hot pincers here. I'll ask the Papal Inquisitor to bring his sjambok though.”

Their lack of comprehension of the French language is utterly laughable! surmised Sir Richard, with a chuckle. They're confused by too much Latin.

“I'll enjoy every part of it,” snarled the evil monk, fleeing for the door, “and may I be struck by Almighty God with the stigmata of St. Francis of Assisi himself.”

I hope that he shreds his sinews, thought Sir Richard. He transfigures Cedric into a saint.

“May I lend you a helping hand, dear Brother Stephanus?” asked Cedric, in sarcastic jest.

“I'll be the death of you, French clown!” roared the rude monk, as Mordreda escaped, much befuzzled, through the window.

A threat of death, mused Sir Richard. That does not portend well for the spirit.

A suggestion of death? wondered Cedric. Maybe I'm on a tightrope to Heaven.

I need to take a quiet pee in a china chamberpot, thought Lady Fiona, wringing her hands.

“My sincere regrets to one and all,” announced Friar Francis, after a full minute of breath-taking silence. “Stephanus can be a man of God when he is sober, but a clay-brained chump when he takes to drink. Notwithstanding his deplorable indiscretions in the Abbey in Melrose, I live in hope that he will become a man of honour, rather than a scheming Iscariot, in this far better place.”

Cedric sighed like a chimp. “There do seem to be a preponderance of algolagniacs in these parts nowadays. In all verity, I sometimes become a bit feisty myself. Maybe it isn't just the Norman influence. It could be the effect of Christianity too.”

Sir Richard heaved his chest. “Jesus forgives us all our sins, except when we blaspheme against the Holy Spirit, though I can scarcely ever fathom when a sin is unpardonable and when it is not.”

Friar Francis fingered the cauterized hole in his cheek.

“That is for Christ to decide, my son,” he cautiously replied. “Our good Lord did indeed teach that it would be better for an evil-doer who hurts children if he were thrown into the sea with a large millstone tied around his neck.”

Thereupon, Kate performed the Sign of the Cross. “By our Lady! Jesus is a goodly friend to me.”

“That verse was reliably recorded by the Apostle Mark,” said Sir Richard. “He, Matthew, and Luke were among the finest liturgists and writers of their time.”

“Unlike Jesu's sanctimonious pipsqueak John who grew ever increasingly confused while he decayed with age on Patmos,” replied Friar Francis, with an encouraging nod.

“And the false Apostle, Paul of Tarsus, who forever distorted the word of the living God,” continued Sir Richard.

Friar Francis hesitated on St. Paul, before smiling benignly. “Hummm…the liturgists of Ariel's New Way were undoubtedly a fine band of Jewish revolutionaries who cared much for the poor and sick. They rose head and shoulders above the crass orthodoxies of Pharisees and the scribes of the Temple. Unfortunately, many Christians have since interpreted the Gospels much too literally. Some enlightened scholars regard this as heresy.”

“And some say that Christianity went wrong soon after it deviated from its Jewish roots,” concluded Sir Richard.

Kate chuckled at that. “Just look at us now!” she declared.

                                                                            

When Kate delivered Lady Fiona to St. Celicia's Wing, they were warmly greeted by the novice nuns. The novices gave the noble lady the room with the goose feather bed, and ran in, one after the other, to show off their home-sewn, green petticoats.

Her Ladyship took a pee in a brass bucket, drank a couple of strong brandies and a Soutfast, and joined in the highly comical horseplay.

Back in the friary, Francis Philpott was keen to discuss the herbs which Sir Richard had brought with him from St. Clotilde's Garden.

“The ergot fungus and juniper seeds you brought last time were most generous,” the friar said. “We have used them to induce the birth of three babies. The ragged wretches from beyond the Tweed had remained much too long in desperate labour.”

“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed Sir Richard, as Cedric produced three pouches from under his shirt tails. “And today we have brought you some tormentilla for parasites, and watercress for fastening and securing teeth. I hope that the hemlock has worked well when mixed with henbane seeds and opium poppy.”

“Extravagantly well. The concoction killed the pain when we amputated an arm and a leg from a peasant from Jedburghe, and it made him considerably comatose.”

“And does the plilucium sooth the fierce agonies endured by your mothers while they give birth to their cherished babies?” inquired Sir Richard.

“In all verity,” replied the grateful friar, “and also the suffering of a sinful woman while we were removing her foetus.”

Sir Richard pressed his hands together, as if in prayer. “I hope that she has now mended her ways. I also have a herb which is not yet well tried by gentlefolk, but which I name lambium. I hear that the white witches call it the 'Spice of the Seven-Horned Lamb', and it is said that they once used it to cure a wizard from la maladie de Bradford Beck after the fool had eaten the kidneys of an uncooked sheep.”

“This is most timely!” exclaimed Francis Philpott, in delight. “One of our deadly sick visitors is suffering from the very same sheep sweat. We've had to hide our very own shepherd Duncan Cotter in the St. Mungus Chapel because his black eschar is gross to the eye, his crimson pallor has spread to much of his skin, and the St. Miriam fungus has begun to creep up his legs.”

“That does indeed sound like the Cumberland fever, as the malady is also called.”

“Yes, a fierce fever of a strange sort, for fully three days now. Maybe your lambium will unboil his head.”

“I recommend mixing three large spoonfuls in hot mead. Here, take this pouch. It contains sufficient lambium for ten days further.”

“Thank you, Sir Richard. We'll try this straightaway, and I'll take you and your noble squire to visit poor Duncan after Evensong to see how he's coming along.”

Sir Richard spent the afternoon in prayer and light-hearted conversation with the monks, while Friar Francis and the highly energetic Kate Sprat paid goodwill visits on the indigenous and infirm people in the surrounding district, of whom many were in need of a loaf of bread or a piece of cake. They were also keen to give generous portions of heath pea to the hungry and starving, and several poor souls dropped to their knees in gratitude.

Later on, Sir Richard and his shifty-bottomed squire sat next to Brother Marmaduke at Evensong in St. Andrew's Chapel. There was enough time to exchange a few words about the possibility of boiling the skins of the oranges from Seville with honey. The eagle-eyed brother was very keen on the idea, and wondered whether to sell the new jelly at his market stall in Lauder.

“The peasants could spread it on their bread, to mix with the lard or supplement the butter,” suggested Brother Marmaduke, with a flick of his jet black eyebrows.

Maybe it will become a new fashion, mused Sir Richard, only to be distracted by a pair of shady characters seated in the next pew. The fair-haired one was wearing a yellow tunic, and the chubby one with the long-nose was attired in wolf skins.

Why do they peer at me? wondered Sir Richard. Zounds! They could be the pair of rascals who escaped hotfooted from Edinburgh with the Spanish Ambassador's jewel box. Methinks they're taking sanctuary here. This should not be allowed!

But before the bold knight could inquire the names of the interlopers, his thoughts were disturbed by a hearty rendering of Anima Christi by the assembled monks and clerics.

What a lovely chant, mused Cedric. Methinks this Jesu really existed.

The music was relaxing to Sir Richard's ears. I can see a bit of Jesus in my squire Cedric, he realised, which isn't surprising since there is a piece of my good Lord in all who call upon his Holy Name.

After two further inspiring hymns and a prayer, the Papal Inquisitor, a crusty-faced Highlander from Inverness, strolled towards the altar, wearing his peacock feather hat. He was followed by the abject, snub-nosed Brother Stephanus, sweating at the gills and wearing nought but a sheepskin around his shoulders.

The Inquisitor handed the blasphemous monk a St. Acacius sjambok (a rhino-hide whip resembling a long, thick snake), and nodded sternly, whereupon the errant brother's painful self-flagellation began to the sounds of the Sanctus.

Gracious me, the Holy brother is turning into a giant beetroot, thought Sir Richard.

Le Fleming's turning into a plum pudding, mused Cedric. Perchance he'll one day be bishop.

Brother Stephanus is too limp-wristed to give himself a sound whipping, thought the not-so-holy Inquisitor from Dingwall, reaching for his birch rod

When the singing was complete, the cruel Highlander followed up with six crisp strokes of the St. Typasius birch. The wicked cleric fainted in fright and agony, and Cedric felt like puking over the floor.

The Inquisitor licked his lips and gave Cedric the glad eye, whereupon Friar Francis encouraged the still retching squire and his protective knight to beat a hasty retreat. They all headed to a remote meadow beyond the walls behind the summit of the hill, and dodged and skipped through the Blackface sheep while trying to find their way.

                                                                    

Cedric was relieved to see a lamp shining by a doorway in the distance. The tiny, windowless St. Mungus Chapel was hidden behind a massive oak tree at the far end of the meadow.

The ancient chapel was empty, apart from a bunk by the candle-lit altar. On the bunk lay a thickset man with a haggard face. A huge ulcer with a black centre bespoiled his abdomen, his chest was heaving, and large swathes of his skin were glowing bright red. He smelt like rotten horse's flesh.
                                                                            

The St. Agatha nurse was dressed in a white gown, her face was partly concealed by a black hood, and her body was slightly stooped. She reeked of the quicklime which also spattered the bed sheets.

“Cotter's fever has lessened a bit since he consumed the new potion from Edinburgh,” she hissed, sprinkling Holy water into her patient's face.

What a strange creature of the night she is, thought Sir Richard. Maybe she is baobhan sith from Callanish whose magical powers to transmogrify into a maiden of beauty have been lost to posterity.

I wouldn't want to meet her in a dark corridor, thought Cedric. Perhaps Brother Stephanus and the nurse are descended from the same she-devil.

“Give the unfortunate fellow the lambium for ten days more and the fever might completely abate,” said Sir Richard.

The seriously sick Duncan Cotter stirred, opened his eyes, and slavered.

“Thank you, kind knight,” he panted, “for helping a mere peasant like me.”

Sir Richard rubbed the good shepherd's brow with a sodden cloth.

“We are all equal in Jesu's eyes, my good man,” replied the kind knight. “I would gladly become a peasant like you, if you a healthy knight could be.”

“Thank you, good Lord,” gurgled Duncan, as his limbs shuddered all together.

The St. Agatha nurse pulled a dirty white packet from beneath her black hood.

“Here's another potion for the peasant's ills,” she seethed. “It's called guttium since it's distilled from the black seaweed ludactus gutache. The starving beggars eat it on the beach at Berwick while the Flemish merchants mix it with their bread.”

“Has it been tried as a medicine before?” asked Sir Richard, with a quizzical flick of his eyebrows.

Friar Francis nodded, somewhat indecisively. “Only with cattle, and with scant success. Neverthebyes, the seaweed closely resembles well-burnt intestines. God went to great pains, when creating the appearance of plants, to show mankind what each herb will be useful for, and this includes seaweeds, according, as I remember, to Galen of Pergamon. If Duncan's illness started in his intestines, then the guttium will undoubtedly cure him.”

“According to Dioscorides' doctrine of signatures, if that Greek pagan's voluminous De Materia Medica is to be believed,” added the scholarly Sir Richard. “But prithee! I beg you to wait a few days more to see whether the Spice of the Seven-Horned Lamb takes fuller effect. I fear that the twain will not mix well together.”

The unusually strange nurse bared her teeth like a she-wolf.

“Do not interfere!” she growled. “God is the arbiter!”

Friar Francis heaved a hefty sigh. “According to a tenth century decree by Pope Anastasius the Third, the infallible truths recorded in De Materia Medica remain the word of the living God. Nevertheless, I think, on reflection, that we should wait and see whether the fever abates with the lambium, before we seek misadventure with the foul brew from Berwick.”

“The Papal Inquisitor will pour scorn on this turn of events,” hissed the nurse.

“Do you ever wipe your fangs, shrewish hussy, or take off your hood?” asked Cedric, with a flick of his forefinger. “You could be a werewolf, for all I know.”

“Forthsooth, I am a vampire, you coot,” screeched the nurse. “I'll drain your blood during the wee small hours until your flesh turns ghastly white. I'll pour it down the sewer along with the rest of the foul blood in our tanks.”

“Enough of this dour ribaldry, fools of Christendom!” begged Friar Francis, straining his brow.

Sir Richard glanced sideways at the belligerent nurse. “We will return soon with all manner of herbs to cure brave Duncan Cotter further.”

Cedric stepped forwards and kissed the sick shepherd's cheek. “In the meantime, may the angels and archangels protect your eternal soul.”

“What a merry triangle of love,” murmured Duncan, with a semblance of a smile.

                                                                            

“Do take a taste of these Hebridean mushrooms, Sir Richard,” requested the sly nurse, with a strange gleam. “They will add delicious pleasantries to your slumbers.”

Sir Richard licked one of the mushrooms with the tip of his tongue. “That's unbelievable! Are they in season?”

“They were freshly picked in the chapel grove yesterday,” whined the nurse, “and dried overnight in the dovecot. When mixed with the pidgeon droppings, they are good for cleansing the blood.”

“Thank you, I'll try one,” said Cedric, coldly, consuming the largest of the mushrooms in a single gulp.

“And a magic toadstool from Wick, perhaps?” inquired the crafty St. Agatha nurse,

“Not tonight, Witch of Babylon,” retorted the foolhardy squire. “They're too rich for my tender stomach.”

                                                                             

Meanwhile, the assembled nuns and their minions were leading a merry dance in St. Celicia's Wing, under the supervision of the raven-haired mother superior from Iona. The holy mother was wearing a flamboyant, multi-coloured kaftan, which had been brought to her from Mesopotamia by a dashing admirer. Lady Fiona thoroughly enjoyed the 'Charade of the Wenceslas Candles', and was left tingling with joy. Everybody joined in the 'Game of the Saintly Sirens', and ended up in one big heap.

Despite a more comfortable opportunity in the friary, Sir Richard decided to sleep between his steed Xanthos and his squire Cedric in the visitors' stable, since Xanthos was prone to fret in strange places during the darkness of night and needed to be comforted.

But Cedric felt a touch light in the head, and took a stroll to St. Cecilia's Wing, in the hope of catching a gloriously saucy glance at Lady Fiona McLachlan in her silk finery through the window of her bedchamber. To his displeasure, his desires went unfulfilled, since the shutters were already firmly closed.

After leaving for the stables, Cedric felt increasingly dizzy, and was, moreover, surprised to hear a strange snorting sound from behind Cupid's Well. To add to his confusion, a tall thin apparition resembling the Grim Reaper seemed to leap from behind the well.

“Bloody Nora!” howled Cedric. “Consarn it!”

“All manner of woe to you, de Porthos, for your traitorous deeds,” seethed the apparition. “Before the loony diver bird coos midnight one more time, you will be poisoned like Socrates from this Earth while your true love to her death you do ride.”

Cedric stared the apparition straight in the face, and saw death itself. Thereupon, he took haste towards the stables, raving like a madman.

“Sir Richard, Sir Richard, pray for me Sir Richard, for the morrow I of hemlock die!” he pleaded, falling to his knees. “Thus the Grim Reaper speaks, has spoken, and will to Charon speak.”

Sir Richard licked his fingers on the last of his Hebridean mushrooms.

“Do take control of yourself, dear Cedric,” he calmly replied. “Twas merely a false vision or perchance a passing dream. Now come and sleep between Xanthos's hoofs, and cuddle me to sleep. I will alter my position for your own special comfort.”

At that, Cedric threw himself into his master's all-enveloping arms.

“My lady, I mean your lady, will also surely die,” raved the deranged squire, “while she in love is tempted.”

“I know all there is to know about the triangle of love that moves between us,” replied Sir Richard, with a welcoming grin. “and no foul death will ever overtake it.”

“Take me, dear Richard,” howled Cedric, in full frenzy, “as if I your dear Ingibiorg were, before she and me in Hellfire meet.”

“But how should I take you?” asked Sir Richard, sounding perplexed.

Cedric waved to and fro like a branch hovering in the wind.

“I, as Jonathan, bow to you, David, my illustrious king.”

Sir Richard felt his head spinning from within his heart, and lost control of his senses. He grabbed Cedric's feet, in a mixture of anguish, lust, and desire, pulled them into the air, and kissed his squire's toes. And the handsome Frenchman deliquesced into the hay.

“And now I will make our triangle complete,” roared Sir Richard, “while the Devil within me makes my love replete.”

“Hey nonino!!”

                                                                             

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