Guest Blogger: Geoffrey Chaucer

Ok, kidding. But my roommate Rachel quoted A Knight's Tale in her blog because we watched it last night, which reminded me that in high school I wrote a "blog post" for Geoffrey Chaucer based on the movie. I have decided, as an exercise of humorous humility, to share my high school cheesiness with you. Despairing laughter is allowed.

May 20, 1420

“Stupid Frenchmen,” I muttered to myself as I walked down the dusty road in the blazing stupid French sun. Well... if truth be told, it was possible if you’re of a narrow mind to blame me for losing all my clothes. I was, after all, the one gambling. But I give the truth in scope- and anyway, they were the ones who made me lose. I had a winning streak last week. Got back my trousers, my shirt, even my jacket. My boots I didn’t win, which is why I was gambling today. The brokers only laugh at me. I have a reputation all over the Continent as an unlucky, broke gambler. I think they just like seeing me without the benefit of clothing.

But a few minutes after walking down the dusty road lamenting the dirt in the creases behind my knees and in my elbows and everywhere else imaginable, I ran into some men who did not look very French. They looked like Englishmen, actually, except the one with the carrot- colored hair who was yelling to his liege that his didn’t give a witch’s teeth (about something), it was his turn.

“Fine, fine,” the blonde man grumbled, dismounting from his horse. Odd, I thought, most lords would have set him in the dirt by now. Witch’s teeth, indeed. Oh well, I told myself with a grin, if he’s not a knight, I can certainly have some fun with him.

“Morning,” I said brightly, patting the massive horse’s shoulder. The blonde man paused in mid- dismount.

“Why, sir,” he said after a second, “What are you doing?”

I chuckled to myself. “Ah, trudging.”

Blank look.

“You know, trudging? To trudge? To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man with nothing left except to simply soldier on.”

More blank looks.

“Were you robbed?”

I laughed. “Interesting question, actually. Yes, and at the same time a huge, resounding no. It’s more of a sort of involuntary vow of poverty, really. But you know at the same time, trudging represents pride; pride, resolve and faith in the good Lord Almighty- please, Christ, rescue me from my contribula- ah!” I held my toes up to my mouth to pull and spit out the splinter I had stepped on. The knight-impostor and his two men watched me implacably.

“Who are ye?” the third man, a tall, fat one, asked.

I told them, of course, that I was the Lily Among the Thorns, Geoffrey Chaucer, the writer. They just stared at me, implacably as ever, and when I asked them who they were, the blonde knight man said bluffly, “Well, I am, um, Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein of Gelderland,and these are my faithful squires Delves of Dodgington-” this was the fat one- “And Falhurst, of Cruin.”

I held out my hand, squinting against the sun. “Right, and I’m Sir Richard the Lionheart. Pleased to meet you. No wait, I’m Charlemange. No, Saint John the Baptist-”

“Hold your tongue, sir, or lose it.” Sir Ulrich held a dagger in my face so close that I backed up at sat on the grass growing along the road’s edge, grinning. “Now you see, that I do believe, Sir Ulrich.”

Ulrich, in the process of sheathing the weapon, pointed it back at me briefly. “Thank you.”

Feeling rather confident in my tongue’s safety again, I explained to the sheltered Gelderlanders what it is that I do, telling them I could write whatever they wanted, from creeds, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility...

“Did you say patents of nobility?”

Bingo, Geoff. You were right. “Yes, that’s right, I did.”

This caused some little consternation between masters Falhurst, Delves, and Ulrich, as to whether or not they ought to trust me. Ah, Geoff, I told myself, the fat one and the impostor are not stupid as you thought. Good, myself replied, you hate Frenchman.

“Wat,” Ulrich said to Falhurst, “Tell him what will happen to him if he betrays us.”

“And be nice,” Delves added firmly. I looked expectantly at Master Wat Falhurst, who ambled over, muttering in his cockney accent, “Nice, nice.” He knelt down in front of me and said passionately, “Betray us, and I will fong you till your insides are out, your entrails become your extrails. I will wring all the... angstmff.... pain! Lots of pain!”

By now I was laughing, and swore I would indeed remember the promised fonging and never betray Lord Ulrich. The happy result was clothes, a half loaf of penny bread from the morning’s street vendors, and an hour’s ride on the pseudo- knight’s horse. As we continued down the road towards Rouen, I learned how it was that William Thatcher had come to be Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein, and Wat and Roland to be Falhurst and Delves.

It was still an hour before I dared ask Wat what a fonging was.