Saturday, March 31, 2007
Lancrius hereWell, what a shit run of luck we've had, eh boys? Ever since that rascal Monroe waltzed into Camelot in the train of the King of Over There.
The winters were mild, but everyone seemed to be snuffling or bedridden with sickness. Dear old Dad had a couple of bouts that laid him low for several weeks at a time...he's really looking rickety these days. We didn't tell him at first that Lady Betty had died, but then I think old Buford finally let it out. He didn't take it as hard as when Mother died, but he can't bury himself in work like he used to. Then one of the little ones died—I think it was one of the girls—and then for like a week, it seemed like every rider coming to the gate bore word of another friend's passing.
Fall in the year 538 is passing us by as I write this, and in that brief year and a half, we've received word at Earl Robert's court that, in addition to my step-mother and little sister, Lady Raeburgh passed away, dear Lady Leofalid (you know, Sir Clydno's wife) died in childbirth, Count Chuckie died, my little brother dear Clarian was struck down while jousting in far-away Gwaelod along with Sir Beryl, Sir Galonors, and Sir Gerin. Palmarin, my brother's squire, came back with my brother's arms. I found Sir Cynfyn in Sarum and after grieving for our fallen comrades and kin, I gave him little Clarian's saddle, the one Dad had especially made to help keep him in the saddle and out of harm's way. Dad took that pretty hard when the Earl told him the news. He left for Camelot shortly thereafter.
Sir Leodigrance the Lesser, reeling from loss as we all are, gathered together those of us comrades-in-arms left in Salisbury and gifted us with a manor each. We then rode to Sir Roderick's manor to visit with him (he's one of Leo's brothers), my sister Lady Anabel, and the children. Monroe was supposed to show up, but sent word that "business in Silchester" kept him away. Uh-huh.
And then the real kicker of the year? My poor Pansy, the world's best horse that ever a poor knight could hope to ride, ate some bad acorns and died.
I took him back home in a cart, and Reginald and I dug a grave for that splendid beast under the apple trees in Durnford. May he eat of its heavenly mast all his days running through the green fields of heaven, Amen.