Shambles
*
At first the butcher was reluctant to speak. The inn was crowded, the atmosphere foetid, and he was thirsty. “I can’t talk with a dry throat,” he moaned.
“Here,” a cutpurse amongst them said, offering a flagon of ale.
There were a number of appreciative murmurs from those present, not the least from the butcher himself. “Why, thank you kindly,” he replied, and drank deeply.
“My skill, I mean pleasure,” replied the cutpurse, for indeed it was. Only ten minutes before he’d relieved the butcher of his money and although it meant neither were better off the cutpurse could always employ his talents again.
“Ah,” the butcher said, finishing the ale. “That’s better. Mind, I am rather hungry.”
The cutpurse produced a blackbird burger, previously acquired with the balance of the proceeds yielded by his earlier crime.
“You are a Samaritan, sir,” said the butcher, digging in.
The cutpurse did not reply, merely smiling and hoping that the ensuing distraction would present further opportunities to increase his wealth. He well knew, as do most businessmen, you have to invest to prosper.
And so, eventually, and after spitting out a bit of a beak, the butcher told his tale. What follows is the translated but otherwise original account (Old English is a foreign language.)
“My family have always been butchers. We came over with the Conqueror, you know. One ancestor, Berauld by name, was really good at his job. Mind you, he had a lot of practise at Hastings and in fact the king, William the Conqueror as he had become, was so pleased with Berauld’s work that he took him to the North where they harried the natives. That’s what the bookmen call it, but it wasn’t harrowing at all. It was really excellent butchery.
“Now William was a hard man. Like all men he had a portion of his anatomy that was very tender so when it came into violent contact with the pommel of his saddle he squeaked a bit, partly from pain, but mainly because of the look given him by the lady who was with him at the time. That look said “You ain’t going to be much more use to me, Bill dear.” It was too much to bear and William lost interest in life and quickly expired.
“William had three sons, fortunately all conceived before the pommel incident, otherwise there would have been no more Normans and no butchers’ tale. On his father’s painful demise the eldest of these, Rufus, became king. Unfortunately, he inherited his father’s talent for falling, not on a pommel this time, but off of his horse and onto an arrow that happened to be lying point upwards just where Rufus came down. Or so said Henry, the third son. Anyway, like William, Rufus was penetrated to death. This was convenient for Henry because the legitimate heir to Rufus’s throne was Robert, and he’d been persuaded by Henry to go on a crusade. So he was out of the country when Rufus died. The fact that Robert was Duke of Normandy whilst Henry was Duke of nothing has no bearing on the matter Henry’s chronicler’s claim. What really counted now was who got crowned first.
“Henry reacted fast. Pulling the arrow from Rufus’s body he wrapped a message round the shaft and sent it to a lady he knew in Rome. Roughly translated the message read “Five hundred quid to keep Robert in Italy and if you don’t the butcher will sort you out.”
At this point the cutpurse demanded, “What’s this history got to do with anything?”
“Essential background,” was the butcher’s reply, removing another bit of beak and tail feather. “The fellow who carried the arrow was another of my ancestors. So do shut up. Let me tell the story.
Now, as then, the key to power is wealth, and to wealth, power, which ever comes sooner. Henry knew the truth of this and, what is more, he knew where the late king Rufus had kept his treasure; nearby in Winchester. He jumped on his horse and rode to where the Treasurer, one de Bretueil, was keeping guard.
On his arrival Henry demanded of de Bretale. “Give me the treasure. The king is dead.”
“The king is dead?” de Bretale repeated. He wasn’t deaf, just slow.
“Yes. Long live the king. ME!” Henry emphasised, with his sword caressing the Treasurer’s neck.
“But,” protested the moneyman, “Robert is next in line and he’s on his way home. He’ll be here soon.”
“Listen, stupid, that’s exactly why I must hurry,” Henry retorted, raising the sword. But he changed his mind, and spared the Treasurer for he guessed if he cut off his head he wouldn’t find any money inside. He hacked off the lid of the treasure chest instead.
“Robert is older than you,” de Bretoil persisted, busily changing his name. “Robert should be king.” Goodness, he ran risks.
“Now listen,” Henry replied, with some patience. “Robert is charming, easy going and rich. He will be no good at this king business.”
“Not if he has no chance to try,” de Brightoil admitted, with a glimmer of intelligence.
“Don’t you notice he is not here,” Henry pointed out, “Whereas I am, so is my sword and so is the Saxon nun I’m going to marry.”
“As well as be king?”
“Exactly. So I need the money and Robert doesn’t. Besides, the lady has nun.”
It was an awful joke, but it worked. As Britoile creased up Henry scooped the contents of the treasure chest, collected his bride to be (or not to be wasn’t the question, she had no choice) and carefully avoiding all means of public transport, hurried off to London. In three days the Bishop of that city proclaimed Henry king of England which the populace found rather long and boring. A 3-hour speech is one thing, you can always nod off. But 3 whole days!!!
“Why you?” the people demanded, annoyed because they’d had to stand in the rain so long.
“Because I was born in the purple,” Henry replied.
The crowd was unconvinced. “In the purple what?”
“I don’t know, do I?” Henry retorted. “But it wasn’t the wrong side of the blanket like you bastards. Besides, I do have all the money.”
The crowd warmed to him immediately. “Show us,” they cried.
“Here it is,” Henry said, and held up a rather large ring.
“Is that all?” cried the populace. Some began to murmur dissent for they had hoped that Henry would give them Maunday money. That would have proved he was king. But he could not for it was Tuesday. Henry had thought ahead.
“I wanted to make a money belt,” Henry explained, “So I melted down the Treasury. Sad to say Rufus spent a lot and this is all I have. It won’t even go over my shoulders.” The ring of gold and embedded gems stuck on top of his head when he tried to slip it down to his waist. “See! It’s stuck on my crown. Never mind, since I’ve just done it, it must be the latest fashion.”
Thus the idea of a crowned head was born and he who had one must be king, or so the crowd reasoned. Their logic was confirmed when Henry showered them with the Bishops’ money, borrowed for the occasion.
“It’s the new Council Tax,” Henry explained to the crestfallen churchman.
“You haven’t got a council,” the cleric retorted.
“I need one now,” Henry said. “Mind, we won’t include education. The last thing we want is the attention of an intelligent rabble.”
The bishop beamed, for up to now most of the cost of learning had been borne by the clerics. “The government will pay?”
“Absolutely,” Henry replied, and added under his breath, “Nothing.”
Thus Henry became king. Everyone knows what happened next so I’ll tell you, for we all like to have our prejudices confirmed. Robert finally evaded the lady in Rome and arrived in France, determined in a mild and amiable sort of way to wrest the crown from Henry. They met in Normandy. A mild and amiable sort of battle was fought during which, for some unaccountable reason, two knights were killed. “You Normans are certainly accident prone,” de Bogoil remarked, remembering the fate of William the Conqueror and Rufus. “Better take care.” Henry’s reply was to lock up Robert for life and have a baby with his Saxon nun wife. This, he reasoned, would secure the
succession. It was important, for if someone other than a Norman became king after Henry, they’d change history and ruin his reputation.
Nearly everyone was happy. The Saxons were happy because by beating Robert of Normandy the battle of Hastings had been avenged and the next king would be at least half English; Henry was happy because he was now a king, a dad and a duke (of Normandy, which, locked up Robert could no longer be); the Queen was happy because Henry left her alone most of the time and took his girl friends on his business trips abroad whereas she fancied rather younger and more handsome courtiers; young William, initially miserable because Henry wouldn’t allow him to drink beer before he was two, cheered up considerably when his considerate father gave him his own private butcher, one Berauld II, son of Berauld I, to teach him the tricks of a conquering king’s trade. He’d heard all about North Harrow and wanted to kill Saxons like his father and grandfather; even de Brit-oil was happy for Henry allowed him to look for treasure in the North Sea. Only Robert was miserable in an amiable sort of way, and this mainly because he’d never been in jail before and thought it a bit of a come down. Only a bit, though. He had much more free time than had a king. Which, naturally, Henry had pointed out as being one of the main advantages prison life. Amiably, Robert had to agree.
For some time nothing much happened until one day, Louis, king of part of France, decided he wanted to be king of the rest. He told Henry he’d better agree or else he’d send over some of his surplus hooligan barons, like those at Hastings, only worse. What he didn’t realise was that Henry had acquired a navy and even if those hooligans did get a foothold, where would they go? The English hadn’t invented football, yet. This was a major blow to Louis. To save face he asked Henry to ask his son, William, to call him king. Henry agreed; for as it happened William, now eighteen, wanted to pop over and stock up on cheap booze. So, over they went, the lad met Louis and said, agreeably, “Hullo king,” and Louis, much gratified, gave them access to all the beer and wine they wanted.
It was at this point, while in Barfleur, that Prince William met a young inventor called Thomas Fitz Stephen, who, when he wasn’t convulsing, loved messing about in boats and inventing things. He told Prince William about his latest project, a new super boat.
Prince William was impressed. “Great,” he enthused. “Go and flog it to the king.”
“He’ll never buy,” replied Fitz Stephen, with a shudder.
“No,” agreed the prince. “But while you are haggling I can have a party. When I’m sufficiently blotto I could tell him what a great product you’ve produced.”
It was agreed. William duly went to his party, Fitz Stephen duly approached the king, Henry duly pointed out it was the end of the month and he was duly broke, so, duly, they began to haggle.
“This white ship of mine has all the latest devices,” Fitz Stephen pointed out. “Some of ‘em so new they’re not even on board yet.”
“Nice one,” conceded the king.
“Fifty slave power; more if you tune her up a bit. I reckon you could squeeze in another ten. Go like a bomb, she will. Nought to sixty in half an hour, or so.”
“Sixty what.”
“Cubits.”
“Remarkable,” murmured the king, unwilling to admit he did not know what a cubit was.
“Very strong, too. I haven’t compromised on timber. You’ve got a good deal here. In fact she’s made of the stuff.”
“We English prefer oak, of course,” Henry replied, seizing the opening.
“Well, yes. But we’re not talking limos. This here is just a dammed good workhorse.”
“Sure,” Henry agreed, smiling. “Unfortunately, Steve, I already have 35 ships. Why do I want any more?”
“Those might have been the words of Edward the Confessor,” Stephen sighed. “Look what happened when your dad came over. Where was the Royal Navy then?”
Henry was impressed, there is no doubt about it, but he would not part with his cash. “I could give it a trial run, I suppose.”
“Absolutely,” Stephen agreed. “Take a spin. Enjoy yourself. If you don’t like her I can always try the States. I mean, those Indian canoes are a bit limiting.” A passing Viking had told him about the Indians long before Columbus set out.
Although Henry wanted the best he never did like parting with best money. And the thought of someone way out West acquiring a better set of sails than he had only increased his agitation. Typically, he went yet more negative and tried to beat down the price. “There’s a problem with your ship, Steve. I hate to say it but, what about my horses?”
Stephen had been waiting for this. He rubbed his hands together. “This will really grab you. Did you notice the ship looks the same both ends?”
“I wondered about that,” Henry admitted.
“I got the idea from church doors. You know, the type with rounded tops. Well, lay them flat and attach the hinges to each end of the boat and what have you got?”
“A draft ridden church,” hazarded the king. “A vicar in a flap?”
“Try again.”
“Wet sailors?”
“Close.”
“Beats me,” the king admitted, finally.
“The latest invention, that’s what you’ve got. Undo the locks and let the doors down and bingo...!”
Henry shook his head. “And in comes the sea. No good, I’m afraid.”
“Where’s your vision?” Stephen cried, hastily adding “Sire,” for the kings’ visage was darkening. “I’ve created the first, the very first clatter on, clatter off ferry. It’s so good in a few years they’ll all be doing it, and making pots of money. Unless you build the Channel tunnel, of course.”
“Nice one, Steve.”
“There’s more. With the White Ship there is no fore and aft. You never have to turn the ship round. That’s always tricky. Turn the slaves instead and get ‘em to row the other way!”
“I like it,” Henry agreed, reluctantly. He knew a vessel as good as this was bound to be pricey.
“There’s no commitment. Just try her out. You’ll bite my hand off for her. Who needs dollars, anyway?”
As it happened Henry did. His head had become very sore supporting the weight of the crown. What he needed was currency, turned into gold, welded onto the crown until it became big enough to go round his waist.
“Look,” Henry said, “I’d love to ride in your boat but the arrangements are all made. However, Prince William can. Let him try her out across the Channel. William!”
“William!”
“William!”
“William!”
“William!”
“William!”
The royal command was relayed from courtier to courtier until finally it courtiered up with William where he was carousing at the Pig and Bottle. Ever the dutiful son the prince hastened to his father’s side carrying half a barrel of real old ale and supporting the rest of the cask on his shoulder. “Yes, Pop?”
“Take a look over there and see what your great Dad’s got you. Le Blanche-Nef.”
William, well into “Un Anglais binge” rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks dad. Is that another French party?”
Henry smiled indulgently. Such a clever lad. So like his father. “It’s a ship, son. You and your brothers and sisters are travelling home in her.”
“It must be big.” Henry’s progeny were numerous, though most were not legit.
“Specially designed. Son, all you have to do is roll on, roll over to good old Blightly and then roll off.”
“Great idea,” Prince William burped. “I need something like that just now.”
“Stephen designed it especially for you,” the king told him.
The prince threw his arm around the inventor’s shoulders. “Great chap, Stephen. You go on, Dad. We’ll finish our party and catch you up later.”
So the king set sail. He was nearly over the horizon when William and his retinue finally embarked on the White ship for the first and as it turned out, the last time
.
William gazed at the distant royal yacht. “Soon catch him up,” he boasted, brandishing a cat o’ nine tails in full view of the rowing slaves. “Won’t we, lads!”
“Aye, aye, sire.” The tars were genuine
(Here we have documented the creation of a new word, TARS. There was a clerk at the pub when the story was told, writing everything down. He wrote tars instead of tears through pressing too hard on the “T,” breaking his quill and when he’d resharpened it and bent once more to his task, he forgot to insert an “E”. (The full document survived, how else could I present it here? Thus the mistake was perpetuated through history.) Actually, TARS should have read TEARS, for that’s what the sailors were shedding. They knew what a sailor’s life was like. What they didn’t know was this misprint thereafter labelled them for life. If they had they would have shed even more! Tars indeed!)
“A prayer before we sail,” the local vicar cried. “No-one should sail without a blessing.” He was on peace be with you work. Only the lookout agreed with him but this was to be expected since his business was also to warn of forthcoming calamities, or else.
William stamped his foot. “I don’t want prayer. I want poke! “Let’s row!”
He gazed hard at the slaves and flicked his designer whip. (Another non-footnote: The king’s commentator is heard to gush, in sotto voice, “Henry’s whip is the latest accessory to come out of Paris for the active man. The leather stock, reinforced with inch wide thongs, will last at least ten victims’ lifetimes whilst the flails are carefully matched each with the other and finished in contrasting colours of red, white and blue overlain with sundry blotches representing use, thus being both wildly patriotic and severely practical. Tests have shown the average eye cannot distinguish Gore or Vidal organs from the original flail.)
The ship got under way as the slaves bent unwillingly to their task. The wind was light, the sea calm, the sky blue, and the seagulls were busy elsewhere. It was the perfect setting for a disaster!
They might have made a record crossing but unfortunately no one had explained to the lookout the unique design of the ship. While he dithered, uncertain which end to go to, because front and back looked exactly the same, he did a dangerous thing. He had a thought. Actually, it was a thought athwart, for that’s where he was, in the middle and since he wasn’t looking out but only praying in the middle for inspiration, the ship struck a rock.
“Abandon ship!” cried the captain, clinging to his girl friend. He leapt overboard. There was nothing but water below so he drowned, weighted down by his armour. She wouldn’t, or couldn’t, let go.
Now William knew that the captain hated sea shanties and their accompanists so naturally enough he thought the captain had said “There’s a band on the ship,” and had jumped rather than endure a bunch of singing tars (the name had already caught on). William was delighted. He started to dance and it was the butcher’s ancestor, Berauld II, who pointed out that they were about to have a shipwreck, not a quickstep. “See, prince! The water’s coming in!”
“And in here, too,” cried the fraught athwart lookout, shaking his wet feet.
“There’s more, see!” shouted one of William’s brothers. “We’re rich!” This only goes to show that some of the Goon show jokes are pretty old.
“All hands on deck,” William commanded, so that no one could move. “Woman and children last. Princes first!” So saying he stepped into the only lifeboat and quickly had Berauld II row them clear.
“Oh, save us!” cried William’s sister Maud. “There’s a dear.”
You’ve guessed it. William’s hearing, already suspect, (Hadn’t you noticed that? Go back a bit and then pay more attention) led him to think she said, “Here’s the beer.”
Like a flash he changed his mind and ordered the lifeboat back to the White Ship. He knew where his duty lay. Alongside again he held out his arms to receive the keg he’d left behind. “Let me have it,” he cried, impatiently. “Jump to it.”
Opinions differ as to what happened next but it boils down to just two options. Either Maud, by no means a little lady, which is to say she was at least 25 stone (= 159 kilos, more or less) then jumped and went clean through the bottom boards of the lifeboat, or, when William cried “Jump to it” they all jumped. In any event the lifeboat was not up to spec and went down, closely followed by the White Ship, bow and stern first.
Now, Beraud II, like all butchers, made sausages and when the lifeboat went down he happened to be clutching one of his own. Being made by him it was mostly sawdust and air, so it floated and he was saved. Many of the others were also butchers but they’d neglected their sausages of late or put in more meat and so drowned.
Thus died the last generation of Normans, William, Maud and all the other bastards, accident-prone to the last. The one remaining problem facing those who found Beraud II clinging to his sausage was who should tell the king his dynasty was finished?
By unanimous consent amongst those at court the only suitable candidate had to be the smallest pageboy, for he couldn’t bully anyone else into facing the king. So the lad shuffled into the presence carrying chloroform, not for the king but for himself so he wouldn’t feel the blow when it fell. He conveyed the awful news amidst a wave of gas. Then, inspiration struck. The king’s eyes were beginning to dilate and his eyelids to droop. The page saw that the king was hooked and gave him the rest. Henry swooned, the page scarpered, and when Henry came too he immediately swooned again for in his mind’s eye he’d seen the rest of his life flash before his eyes.
It is true that from that day onwards no one ever saw the king smile. Part of the reason was that he needed a new legit heir and that meant the Queen was involved. He probably guessed he was unlikely to begat a son by her because she wouldn’t let him begin, let alone begat. Yet for the next fifteen years he’d have to keep trying just in case she lost her concentration. Smile? Don’t make me laugh.
Is there a moral to this history? Naturally, and it is this. Henry was the last of the Normans and by the time the Lancastrian and Yorkist kings had sorted out their differences England was English again and most of France French. It would have saved a lot of trouble if someone had informed the Conqueror not to bother to come over in the first place. The Normans never ferried well abroad. They are too accident prone as this sorry records.
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*
Silly Verse
5. Tomorrow
Life is but a bitter pill
Hurry up and swallow;
Being Christian you can hope
For better things to follow.
Life is but a bitter pill
Take your time to swallow;
Being godless you will know
Oblivion must follow.
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