Chris Page's Blog: An author's blog by Chris Page
December 29, 2012
An excerpt from my book Hollow Bosoms
In 1248, a landed gentleman of Norfolk, England, called Sir John le Breton, a descendant of one of the leading French knights who’d accompanied William the Conqueror when he’d invaded in 1066, discovered that his youngest daughter was regularly having congress with another knight of the shires called Sir Godfrey Millers, a married man with adult children. Millers, of Anglo Saxon descent and therefore of a pedigree lower than squid shit in le Breton’s estimation, was not only emptying his fat little ninny stick into the eager moosh of John le Breton’s daughter, but was delivering an aristocratic insult of incandescent vexation with every thrust. What, pray, if the wanton daughter became heavy with child? The august and truly noble le Breton French blue blood would not, nay, must not, be allowed to mix with the bastardised Anglo bile-water and Saxon dog spume carried in the loins of Millers. Any ‘issue’ – aristo-speak for children-of the liaison, would be thrown on the hottest of fires straight out of the womb.
Sir John le Breton ended the matter simply and expediently by, with other members of his family, ambushing Millers, stringing him up feet first and castrating him. The removal of the Millers joy sacs naturally brought an end to his relationship with the le Breton daughter, or, for that matter, any other female, for the rest of his miserable life which, unsurprisingly, the miserable castrata ended two years later. The erring daughter, fortunately not with child, was sent to a strict nunnery in France where she endeavoured to replace the internal excitation of her moosh brought about by the vigorous application of the Millers fat little ninny stick, with the pious Latin of the scriptures and the red and roughened knees of supplication. After two years of this she ran off with a bell-ringing candle snuffer from Antioch and was never heard of again.
The king of England was Henry III, whose laws of medieval crime in force at the time decreed that removing the bollocks of another was only justified if he had been shagging your wife. Daughters, sons, brothers, sisters and grandparents, your donkey, riding boots or anything else you valued, didn’t qualify, so the vengeful Sir John le Breton ended his days in exile. Before he left, however, his own pure aristocratic seed had been vigorously spread around three legal wives of the correct lineage and they had produced fourteen children. This was the beginning of a mighty dynasty that still endures to this day, as does the vengeful reaction to any dynastic slights by others of a considered lower order on the good name of le Breton. In the ensuing 762 years many more human appendages have been hacked off in pursuit of the le Breton style of vengeance, more often than not including the heads of the perceived perpetrators. The heraldic crest of the le Breton family ensures that those who would attempt to besmirch their honour or good name, should be in no doubt of the outcome. Under a bower of fleur-de-lys was a circular picture of a French knight on horseback trampling down an English devil and stabbing a lance through its throat, to indicate the victory under William of Normandy over King Harold of England at the battle of Hastings by Sir John’s ancestor. On each side was the picture of a man strung up by his feet alongside an oval sac with a ragged edge at the top...
An ornate scroll along the bottom bore the Latin inscription Ferrum irati acuitur. Iron is sharpened by wrath.
Medieval heraldry had a certain definitive way of getting over a message.
Sir John le Breton ended the matter simply and expediently by, with other members of his family, ambushing Millers, stringing him up feet first and castrating him. The removal of the Millers joy sacs naturally brought an end to his relationship with the le Breton daughter, or, for that matter, any other female, for the rest of his miserable life which, unsurprisingly, the miserable castrata ended two years later. The erring daughter, fortunately not with child, was sent to a strict nunnery in France where she endeavoured to replace the internal excitation of her moosh brought about by the vigorous application of the Millers fat little ninny stick, with the pious Latin of the scriptures and the red and roughened knees of supplication. After two years of this she ran off with a bell-ringing candle snuffer from Antioch and was never heard of again.
The king of England was Henry III, whose laws of medieval crime in force at the time decreed that removing the bollocks of another was only justified if he had been shagging your wife. Daughters, sons, brothers, sisters and grandparents, your donkey, riding boots or anything else you valued, didn’t qualify, so the vengeful Sir John le Breton ended his days in exile. Before he left, however, his own pure aristocratic seed had been vigorously spread around three legal wives of the correct lineage and they had produced fourteen children. This was the beginning of a mighty dynasty that still endures to this day, as does the vengeful reaction to any dynastic slights by others of a considered lower order on the good name of le Breton. In the ensuing 762 years many more human appendages have been hacked off in pursuit of the le Breton style of vengeance, more often than not including the heads of the perceived perpetrators. The heraldic crest of the le Breton family ensures that those who would attempt to besmirch their honour or good name, should be in no doubt of the outcome. Under a bower of fleur-de-lys was a circular picture of a French knight on horseback trampling down an English devil and stabbing a lance through its throat, to indicate the victory under William of Normandy over King Harold of England at the battle of Hastings by Sir John’s ancestor. On each side was the picture of a man strung up by his feet alongside an oval sac with a ragged edge at the top...
An ornate scroll along the bottom bore the Latin inscription Ferrum irati acuitur. Iron is sharpened by wrath.
Medieval heraldry had a certain definitive way of getting over a message.
Introduction
This is the first blog I have ever done so bear with me while I get the hang of it.
I am a fulltime author with ten completed books and any number of short stories, poems and essays to my name, none of which has ever received the official stamp or copious coin of a proper publishing deal. Old suitcases bulge in the loft with other, mostly unreadable efforts in longhand and Tippex-blobbed typed pages, slavishly compiled around the working week and family duties over the many years I have been a compulsive writer. Thanks to my technically trained and supportive son I have now placed six of these books for review on Goodreads.
Best regards to you all.
Chris
I am a fulltime author with ten completed books and any number of short stories, poems and essays to my name, none of which has ever received the official stamp or copious coin of a proper publishing deal. Old suitcases bulge in the loft with other, mostly unreadable efforts in longhand and Tippex-blobbed typed pages, slavishly compiled around the working week and family duties over the many years I have been a compulsive writer. Thanks to my technically trained and supportive son I have now placed six of these books for review on Goodreads.
Best regards to you all.
Chris
An author's blog by Chris Page
A collection of unimportant comments, random thoughts and irreverent whimsy from the usually introspected, occasionally inebriated and always engaged mind of a compulsive author.
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