COPYRIGHT INFO The Sporadic Verses are copyright 1992, 1993 and 1994 by Jeff Berry and Ben Baron. They may be reproduced in any SCA publication so long as this copyright notice is retained, they are not sold for profit, and the authors receive a copy. If you want to sell them for profit, or buy the nice bound collected editions, contact Jeff Berry, nexus@panix.com END OF COPYRIGHT INFO - Date: 11/25/97 The Sporadic Verses - an epistle in n parts Being a Satire of nothing in particular and containing no political content whatsoever. From the politically correct pens of Louis-Philippe Mitouard and Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne Episode the Third Interlude "Lance, your performance was exquisite!" The Archduke paused as he put on the stainless steel greaves he was accustomed to wear instead of trousers and arched one eyebrow. "Yvette, I always am." He finished dressing himself and chucked the pretty secretary under the chin. "I must go little one, but maybe I'll return and make you a Countess some time." Yvette blushed profusely over her whole body, making interesting patterns under the sheets. Moments later, Lance was out in the courtyard calling for his squire. "Melrose! Where are you?" Melrose turned from where he was spit-polishing his lord's spurs. "Yes, my lord Duke, Archruler of the Realms, K of the I and Companion of the AKFO?" Lancelot stopped preening and turned a quizzical eye on Melrose. "AKFO?" "Yes, my lord, what with your acceptance into the Order of the Purple Dragon Combatant, I can no longer remember the names of all of your fighting awards, but as you have them all, I shortened it to AKFO, for All Known Fighting Orders." "Hmm, well, all right. But get ready with the full span for court events, you know." The hapless Squire nodded. The Knight continued, "Now, saddle my horse and prepare my train. We ride for the Wasteland. A crown awaits me." "The Wasteland, my Lord? It is, if you will pardon my saying so, a backwater dungheap." "True, Melrose. That is why I am sent on a mission by the Stewardess herself. I will go to drag them out of the muck, whether they wish to rise or not." Chapter 4 Enough, John's brain screamed, ENOUGH. He was seated at the banquet table, the Queen at his side, and they were sitting through the sixth of the nineteen sets of entertainment scheduled for the evening. This set had started with the Sackbutt Orchestra playing their rendition of Greensleeves. Propriety had forced him into a seat for the evening. Good manners had kept him there for five interminable hours. Finally he decided to make his move. He still needed to discuss plans for the Principality. If he could just get some time alone with Her Majesty, without musicians braying in his ears! John decided to do the only thing he could -- what any reasonable man would do in his situation, he thought. Desperate times called for desperate measures -- he decided to start a riot. John gently unsheathed his dagger and waited with it palmed in his lap. Presently his unwilling accomplice came along. A cavalier had excused himself (He'd better have a good excuse, John thought), and was walking behind the row of tables toward the door. As he passed behind the chair next to John's, in which sat a rather crusty looking cavalier, John acted. He reached around to the seated cavalier and used the dagger to tear the back of the cavalier's doublet. The satin tore with disquieting loudness. John quietly slipped the dagger, its unnoticed work done, onto the floor. The room fell silent as the crusty gentleman pushed himself from his place and stood facing the guilty cavalier, drawing his rapier as he did. "Clumsy sir, I believe you have torn my garment." This should be good, John thought. Cavaliers would forgive almost any transgression from horse thieving to murder without a thought, but tear their lace sleeves, and they got angry as hornets. John deftly slipped out of his seat and moved toward the door as the row began and the so-called entertainers dove for cover. John heard the clatter of steel and the breaking of glass in the room as he slipped out into the hall followed minutes later by the Queen and her entourage. John bowed low as the Queen stopped before him. "Sorry to take so long," she said breathlessly, "I had to referee as they chose up sides for the melee. Thank you," she added, "I assume you started that." "Your Majesty. How could you think that of me?" John dissembled coyly. "An educated guess. Well, anyway, if it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. A fight usually happens sometime during the evening. Feasts just aren't any fun for the boys if they don't get their dueling in." The Queen addressed her attendants, "Leave us. This man and I have matters to discuss." The attendants bowed and quickly departed. John and the Queen turned and walked up a wide curving flight of stairs toward an upstairs parlor. ************************** Yet another distracting scene change In a far away cottage, deep in the woods of the Southland, Shadrach Darkmane looked up from his drawing board. It was that same uneasy feeling again. He stroked his long beard as he felt the cracks in his weathered face. Could it be a disturbance in the Force? Could it be, at long last, that spirit's fateful call to his destiny -- to become the first artist-king in the Known World? No, he decided, probably just another attack of wind. Disturbed from his project, he pushed away from the table and stood to go off to the privy. Just as he touched the doorhandle to leave, his assistant burst into the room, pushing Shadrach aside. The apprentice spoke anxiously, "Have you finished reading my play? I need it ready for the next Arts and Sciences Pentathlon. I think this one is worth at least an Honorable Mention, don't you?" "Now, Bill," Shadrach stood and dusted himself off as he spoke, "you know that it's not easy to get a Laurel. You know you have to work on historical accuracy." Shadrach spoke in an indulgent tone, idly fingering his own well worn Laurel medallion as he stared at his assistant. "Historical accuracy, historical accuracy," his assistant mimicked the litany. He had heard it a thousand times. "But, I want to do great art. Meaningful things with cultural value." "Well, you won't get there this way, Bill. This melodrama, for instance." Shadrach walked over and picked up a dog-eared manuscript from his work table. "Everyone dies at the end, including the Prince of Denmark. Not very realistic." Chapter 5 Lance sighed and hunkered down in the saddle. It was raining. Fortunately, his armor was stainless steel. Still, it trickled down inside his helm and got the padding all soggy. Furthermore, the eight inch high strawberry leaves of his coronet kept getting tangled in the low-hanging branches of the forest through which he and his squire passed in shivering discomfort. "My lord!" cried Melrose, "Ahead I see a beautifully crafted reproduction of a sixteenth century, middle class manor house, in the style of the ... Essex region, I think. Perhaps we can shelter there." Melrose had studied with the famous architect, Christopher Wren (mistakenly called Sir by some, but as everyone knows, one can only be knighted for martial achievement). "Damnation," thought Lance, "with that kind of attention to detail it probably houses some arts and sciences type person. How dull -- they don't know to party. Still, better than nothing. Besides," he ruminated, "someone has to make the coronets and other things for me to wear." Meanwhile, inside the house, Bill gazed out the window into the rain and regarded the distant approach up the estate road of the Arch-duke and his dogsbody. "Shadrach! I mean, Master," Bill said, "there is a man approaching the house. He is too far away to make out who it is, but it can only be some great Royal Peer, for he wears a hodge-podge of poorly researched armor of differing periods, which is of a uniform high quality!" The young Bill glanced anxiously about him, fighters of any stripe made him nervous. They were always reading his plays and complaining that there wasn't enough fighting in them. Well, he'd show them. He had an idea for a historical play. He'd already got some dialogue thought out -- 'Once more over the walls, dear friends, we must have a gruesome battle today!' or something like that. It was still a bit rough. Shadrach regarded his nails thoughtfully, "Royal peer?" he thought. "Oh lord, am I to be banished again?" He didn't think so, but it was sometimes so hard to tell. "Well, Bill, let them in. Instruct Cook to prepare a meal." He smiled. "Have it be a lower class one, you know, hearty peasant fare." Bill giggled as he left, that meant it would be turnips with almost no spicing tonight! Some of Cook's 'peasant fare' had been known to drive strong men to their knees. Even some Scotsmen grew a bit pale. Bill ran down the hall toward the kitchen. He stuck his nose tentatively through the open kitchen doorway. Even at this point in his young life, he knew such basics of self-preservation as never to walk into a kitchen unbidden. "Cook!" Bill cried then ducked quickly back around the doorway into the hall as pan flew past his nose out the doorway, crashing against the far wall. A short, blond man in a white chef's apron emerged, wiping his hands. He shot Bill an ugly glance. Bill cringed, cook shot him such a look of reproach that Bill quailed, cook looked bushed he noted .... "Bill," said the cook reproachfully, "you know that my official title is 'Feastocrat', a title loaded with such historical significance as to make the title 'cook' seem almost insulting." "Sorry. We have guests for dinner. A royal peer and his servant. Master Shadrach said that you should make," he snickered, "hearty peasant fare, if you would, lord Feastocrat." The cook burst into laughter, "Hmm, unwanted guests then. I have just the thing. I have a recipe for haggwas I've been wanting to try!" "Haggwas?" "Yes, like Haggis, but you leave it out to sit for a few hours before serving." A loud knock came at the front door, rattling the windows in the entire house. Bill turned from the kitchen just in time to see Cragmont, the butler, walking to the door. The butler opened the door. Before him stood a tall, blond, thickly muscled knight. Behind the knight, still shivering in the rain, stood a smaller, younger, but equally arrogant looking Squire. "Welcome, Your Archgrace, to the home of Shadrach Darkmane." the butler intoned dryly, and then added, "You may wish to remove your hardware before entering." A brief moment of confusion passed across Lance's face, as he glanced down at his armor, which _everyone_ knew he wore at every waking moment. The butler couldn't mean that! The butler directed his gaze upward and pointed a finger at the Ducal coronet, whose leaves stuck up several inches higher than the doorjamb. "Oh. Of course." Lance chuckled gamely, trying to regain his composure. He puffed himself up. "I wouldn't want to intimidate the servants." He removed his coronet. Even without it, he didn't clear the doorway by much. He strode into the house, followed by Melrose. ************************** The duke, his squire, Shadrach, and his student passed an uneventful evening, except for Lance's constant praise of the dinner fare, which made Shadrach groan. Unaccustomed to such praise, Cook unhesitatingly accepted Lance's offer to join his court, as chef de cuisine. Early the next morning, which could not come soon enough for Bill, who had been forced to give up his room to the arrogant Archduke, the household was awakened by the clattering of metal against metal. Sleepily, Shadrach stumbled to the foyer. He could hear Lance's voice down the corridor saying monotonously, "No. Tip. Light. No. Tip. Light." Shadrach could see the poor squire, fully armored, swinging a sword with all his might at his master, who, strangely, thought Shadrach, did not seem to be blocking the blows at all. As they noticed Shadrach's approach, they stopped and turned. Lance spoke, "Sorry, my good man. We were doing our morning calisthenics. Need to get ready for a long day in the saddle, you know. Did we wake you?" "Yes, as a matter of fact," Shadrach grumbled. "Well, we won't trouble you long. Today, we ride to to the Wasteland. Their Crown Tournament is next week, and I will win it. I have some business to do as their King." "Business?" Shadrach intoned warily, fearing the worst. "Another banishment?" "Banishment. Mais non!" Normally Lance didn't speak French, but he thought this phrase made him sound especially worldly and urbane. Melrose rolled his eyes. "I want to give a special new award to to an old enemy." "And, who would that be?" Shadrach intoned cautiously. "Doomstalker Bladesmasher." Shadrach searched his memory, puzzled. Obviously this man was a fiend, but Shadrach didn't know the name -- and Shadrach, after all, maintained the Villains, Schemers and Authenticists mailing list. How could this man have escaped his notice? "Hmm, Bladesmasher?" "You may know him as Lothar the Lothario. The one who passed out the love-drugged cloved fruit at Northern Twelfth Night several years ago." "No." "Or as Dred Scott, the Rastafarian highlander, who caused such a stir at Moonland Highland Games with his red, yellow, green and black plaid great kilt." "Umm, sorry", said Shadrach. His attention was really not on the Archduke, for he heard every feather of his pillow calling him back to bed. "Well, anyway. I intend to give this at my Coronation. It will be a special day, indeed." Lance reached down and pulled an award medallion from his armor bag. The Archduke and his squire, having completed their calisthenics, then gathered their gear and departed. Interesting award, Shadrach thought. One doesn't often see a medallion strung with razor wire ... ===================================================================== Authors' Note: The many fans of the Sporadic Verses write constantly to us. And both of them have asked the same question: how it is that two so talented and modest writers such as Louis-Philippe and Alexandre could stoop to writing such cheap commercial rubbish as the Verses. The authors, in the spirit of accuracy, wish now to reveal all. We feel it necessary to admit that the Verses are not by our hands at all. We are merely editors of this manuscript. For commercial purposes, being that we do not know the identity of the true authors, we are forced to substitute our own names instead. We unearthed the manuscript several years ago from an attic (the location of which we have kept confidential, to preserve the garbage collector's privacy), and sensing immediately the historical importance of this work, we set about to determine its provenance. After subjecting it to intensive linguistic analysis one morning, we determined that it is likely the work of either Chaucer, Pliny, or Francis Bacon or possibly a hitherto unknown collaboration between them. Hence, out of fairness, we ask that all complaints about the content of the Verses be directed to their estates.