Getting Knotted

Since my rather sober posting yesterday, this Cat has found something to be more cheerful and chipper about! Despite the growing shadow and creeping stranglehold of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and its power-crazed, venal and impudent political lackeys, another bright light beams in the encroaching darkness. We are going to be the happy witnesses of yet another Royal Wedding. Hooray for His Majesty King Alhfrith! Three cheers for the monarchy! We are so privileged. Where's the holiday?

Princess Ziggurat, who is the three hundred and thirty ninth in succession to the coveted Northumbrian throne, is due to marry her childhood sweetheart, Mebeverin of Tinwald - a player of a rough and tough form of football called 'ragger', where huge bull-shaped players collide with each other at high speed in pursuit of an oval bladder. This happy occasion - which will signal the melding of vulgar royal and refined peasant families - will be taking place this coming weekend in the wild and untamed realms of the uncouth and uncivilized Scots, who - so far - have failed to be inclined to adopt the niceties of Anglo-Saxon life and culture. It's their loss, boys and girls..

I asked Caedmon if he had any idea why these persons were going to be joined in Holy Matrimony in such a mountainous, windswept and desolate place. He knowledgeably told me that he hadn't the first clue, and suggested that I ask one of my friends. After all, they all seem to be more interested in these ephemeral matters than he.

So I sought out Lareow, Caedmeron's appointed Rat Czar and Mouser - and the principal source of intelligence for matters political. Surprisingly, he didn't know either, but he suggested I speak to Dellimell the hysterical soothsayer. So without further ado I sought out her dwellingplace - a large barn which is usually a hive of frenetic industry. The place was deserted, except for a course-tongued Anglo-Saxon maiden called Tressy, who was on duty to receive messages from Dellimell's secret legions of minions who invent the bizarre stories and tales of woe she tells. I politely asked Tressy where everyone was, and she curtly told me as she filed her dirty fingernails that they were all out, eavesdropping on the conversations of distressed gentlefolk around the four corners of the Realm. When I asked her if she knew why Ziggurat and Mebeverin were marrying in Scotland, she politely told me to go away. She used some very Anglo-Saxon Anglo-Saxon language. So I quickly deposited a slimy hairball on her neatly folded cloak and hastily departed.

Later on, I met Feaxede the Fox, who was on his way home with some freshly-excavated chicken carcasses. I told him about my fruitless quest, and he told me that I was a silly cat: I should have gone to see him first, as he already knew the answer to my question.. he could have saved me the time and the trouble.

It appears that the happy couple are tying the knot in the uncouth land of the Scots because it's the only place where the fiery beverage called whiskey is to be found - and Ziggurat and Mebeverin want a right royal Caledonian-style lash-up - and this stuff beats ale and mead hands down.. I await the post-festal bodycount with interest...