a rough ride

“Yes, the grass is lush and beautiful.  It’s a fine morning.  The cold dew is disappearing in the March sunlight . . . Tell me, how did you find this bint?”

“That is an oft told tale.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from the King himself.”

“It was the hot August, that cursèd Oswin’s Day.”

“I wonder why you continue that Saxon tradition.”

“One must concede some things.  On occasion noblesse oblige has its purposes. Remember we French are still of lesser numbers here.”

“The annual event does attract the common crowd.  It is a privilege for any of those Anglish wretches to be selected for the King’s Household.”

“Oui, oui, though it means we have to go to that stinking gully every year.”

“So this is who you selected?”

“It was two years past.  The vermin were pressing toward my carriage so fiercely that my guards had to clip them over the head to stay them from unwitting treason.  However I saw one lovely maiden whose features were most arresting.”

“Her face, though a product of crude nature, is strikingly beautiful.”

“Yes.  Dressed in rags, shoeless, yet I could not deny her pleading eyes, bright and blue like the sky, rounded by wild hair the color of the sun.  Well did the Holy Father Gregory declare that some Angles look like Angels.

“I motioned for Eadred to bind her and bring her hither, but then she brought forth two small children, barely of an age to walk.  She would not come without them, though Eadred press the issue most forcefully.”

“So instead of leaving her to the putrid swamp, you brought the two little ones along with her.”

“Yes.  It seemed no special burden.  Upon questioning by Brother Cnary it turned out that they were not her children but rather her siblings.  And that she had cared for them after their mother did not awake one morning under the snow.”

“Under the snow?”

“The Anglish are a hardy breed.  Those without a roof over their heads can sleep in rags in all weathers.”

“And their father?”

“Guillaume, you astound me sometimes.  When does an Anglish man, once he plants his seed, linger to take on the commission of St. Joseph?  I hear that it happens, but only as the teeth of a hen.”

“Well then -- what -- what is that now?  Is she struggling in her bonds?”

“I urge you to watch closely.  See how the grass exacts its tribute from her seats of pleasure.  See how she gasps and moans, her face down so that she is almost taking in the grass, breathing in what is opposite of Heaven.  Yes, it does look like she is struggling.”

“Henry!  Was that -- did we just behold --”

“Yes, Guillaume.  She was experiencing the Sacred Moment.”

“May Christ Jesus save us!  I never did see such a thing!”

“Yes, for a man it is necessary, to propagate the race.  For a female it is sinful -- but an Anglish creature knows little of that.”

“She is crying in pain now.”

“Yes, God’s punishment for succumbing to sinful temptations.  As she is drawn along by Gaspar’s unceasing pacing.”