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...

Bogey On Down

Well - following the excitement and feeding frenzy around the Wedding of Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha, things had started to settle down. The deferential and sycophantic slobbering of the soothsayers had started to diminish, and once again attention was turning to the Cyrenian war, where the delusional, khat-chewing psychopath O'Daffy has been getting a pasting from the combined forces of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), who are acting as military advisors and toothpicks to the raggle-taggle Cyrenian rebels.

And then the announcement came. Olaf Ladensson - the legendary Viking homicidal maniac and religious fanatic - has been killed. Really.

Olaf Ladensson was a legendary figure, whose purported aim was to win the entire civilised Anglo-Saxon world to the Norse customs, gods and the Eddas - the Nordic holy book of fairytales and heroes. A noble aim, if you like that sort of thing - but unfortunately for Olaf and his crew, the majority of Anglo-Saxons simply don't give a monkey's for their offbeat beliefs. Some of them - my own master Caedmon included - are devout Christians, who would never renounce the Gospel. Since Olaf Ladensson recognised this reality, he purportedly made it his mission to use gentle persuasion to tenderly woo the Anglo-Saxons to his beloved religion. So they tell us that he inspired his faithful and equally fanatical followers to go berserk in busy marketplaces, and kill as many Anglo-Saxons as possible. This they did - with deadly effect. They also burned buildings, causing devastation and severe loss of life.

Oddly enough, after the main atrocities attributed to this Viking had been committed, the hysteria whipped up by the politicians and the soothsayers about Olaf Ladensson gently and gradually dwindled. In the meantime, Great Security Measures were taken to intimidate ordinary travelling Anglo-Saxon folk. At every settlement they passed through, their belongings were assiduously searched for weapons - just in case they were actually Viking infiltrators on a crazy suicide mission. Everyone was now a suspect.

And suddenly, after years of silence, lo and behold! Olaf Ladensson has been found and summarily executed. And there are some elections coming up in various places. Hmmm...

If Olaf Ladensson hadn't existed, it would have been necessary for Those Who Know Best to invent him. He's been very useful figure - like Father Christmas, Elvey Preslode or - perhaps more appropriately - The Bogey Man. And now he's gone.

Time for a new one, I suspect...

No Guesses for the Guest List

It's been quite a pleasant and peaceful weekend - other than having to console poor Feaxede. His application to stand as a  Redistributionist councillor in the Streonaeshalch local election has been turned down by the Faction; I can't say I'm terribly surprised. When he came over to tell me the bad news, I could see that he was close to tears. I told him that he was a very astute and worthy member of the animal kingdom, and he would only have become corrupted by those venal politicos if he'd been accepted as a candidate. It's a human-eat-human world out there.

The reason for his rejection was (ostensibly) that he hadn't been in the Redistributionist Faction for long enough - and he lacked the political experience. To all outward appearances, those reasons sound plausible enough, but I have a sneaky feeling that they're masking the true reason; it's my suspicion that despite their obsession with their inclusivist dogma, they're actually closet foxists - the sin that dare not speak its name. But I didn't share that reservation with Feaxede - it would be unkind of me. I'm his loyal friend - and I want to remain as such.

Feaxede came back to see me a few hours afterwards; his demeanour was quite different this time. He didn't give me a chance to greet him when he excitedly told me that he'd discovered a piece of vellum. This time it wasn't in the local dump - much to my surprise. When I asked him where he'd found it, he was rather bashful and reticent, but when I pressed him on the matter, it transpired that he'd decided to pay a social call to the house of the local Redistributionist Faction chief. To his surprise, nobody was at home, but the front door was open. He went in, found that there were no chicken carasses or other scraps of food, and he was about to leave the premises when he noticed a sheet of new vellum with fresh writing on it.

I questioned Feaxede's morality in doing such a deed, and he told me that he was so upset at his rejection that he wanted some kind of reassurance from the Resistributionist boss. Since he wasn't even at home, Feaxede decided to console himself with a 'borrowed' item. I asked him where he'd put it - and he led me to his lair, where the splendidly elaborate vellum was already stretched out. He asked me to read it to him, and I told him in no uncertain terms that he must return it to its rightful place if I were to do so. He solemnly assured me that he would.

The vellum turned out to be a guestlist for Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha's forthcoming wedding. It had the names of some of the invited guests. This information was like a goldmine, as I knew that the list of names is a closely-guarded secret. Among the invited guests was King Jose Borracho - the megalomaniac Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and his faithful half-witted henchman Hermit. It also listed O'Daffy (the chandelier-swinging, khat-chewing leader of the Cyrenians), the deposed Pharaoh of Egypt - Chesney Mubarak O'Barmy and the former Redistributionist Premier Guthmund the Brown. But Caedmeron and Edweird the Milliner were conspicuously absent from the list. My secret agent Láréow wasn't on the list either, sorry to say. The choice of guests leaves a great deal to be desired; I suppose that King Alhfrith and his dirty-mouthed Queen Hillida aren't too fussy about the company they keep. If I were some bandit chief or small-time gangster boss, I suppose my guest list would be similar.

This begs an interesting question. How on earth did some low-grade Redistributionist lackey get hold of such privileged information? The name of the Faction leader wasn't on the list either, so it was of no consequence to him. Having given the matter some thought, I concluded that the Redistributionist had also come by this information through dishonest means. Feaxede was surprised. What should he do with it?

I told Feaxede to take it to Beeby See or Guardy-Ann and offer it to them in exchange for anonymity and a substantial reward. I reckon Feaxede has a lot of chicken dinners coming his way. That's all the consolation he needs. He deserves it.