My Knighthood to Him Who Can Beat Me
Happy 444th birthday, Shakespeare!
Here's a bit of silly Shakes-fic to celebrate, inspired by a comment either from angevin2 herself, or someone on her f-list.
The stranger sat all day in the marketplace with a placard around his neck that read “My Knighthood To Him Who Can Beat Me.”
Most of the townsfolk eyed him warily, which was not surprising as he was approximately the size of a small mountain. Only two or three young gallants dared to approach him and ask his choice of weapon; and when the knight explained the exact nature of the contest he proposed, they all blanched and scuttled to the far edge of the marketplace.
“WHAT?” roared the mountainous knight. “IS THERE NO ONE IN NORFOLK WHO DARES CHALLENGE ME? YE BASE, COWARDLY, RECREANTS, NOT WORTHY THE NAME OF ENGLISHMEN!”
An angry murmur ran through the marketplace; yet no one stepped forward to take up the challenge.
“Bring out the lad o’ the castle,” said Agnes, the old pastry-cook. “He could beat him.”
Some said he could and some said he couldn’t, and some said that Agnes ought to be ashamed of herself for leading the poor lad out to the slaughter when she stood to make a handsome profit on the combat. Nonetheless, the voices in favor of the contest grew louder, and at last most of the people in the marketplace were shouting, “BRING OUT THE LAD O’ THE CASTLE!”
A messenger was dispatched to the castle, and returned half an hour later with one of the Duke’s pages. He was a well-grown boy of about fifteen, rosy-cheeked and somewhat thick about the waist, though as yet nowhere near the size of the mountainous knight.
The betting grew fast and furious. “Ten pence on our Jack.” “A shilling on the stranger; look at the size of him!” “Our lad’s younger.” “Aye, but he’s not had the practice.” “The Duke ought to put a stop to it - they’ll both kill themselves.” “That they might, but the young one will beat. Look at the gleam in his eye.”
At last the betting settled down, and a place was appointed for the contest. Trumpets sounded, and ladies showered the champions with favors. “BRING OUT THE PIES!” cried the crowd.
It was an epic battle. It went on for nearly three hours, and most of Agnes’ wares were destroyed, along with two geese, a basket of apples, and a great wheel of cheese.
At last the mountainous knight put up his hands in surrender and staggered, green-faced, behind a bush. The victorious lad wiped his mouth and called for a half-gallon of ale.
“You did promise me a knighthood, sir,” said the boy when the defeated champion returned. “Give it me, or else I name thee recreant and caitiff coward - not to mention loser.”
The mountainous knight sighed, swayed on his feet and looked for a moment like he might be sick again. “Thy name, boy?”
“Jack Falstaff. Sir John Falstaff, Knight of the Burning Pies.”
“Thou seemst to have dubbed thyself knight already,” grumbled the mountainous knight - although few people heard him, because Agnes chose the same moment to cry indignantly, “They were NOT BURNT!”
Falstaff rolled his eyes heavenward. “Lord, Lord, how this world is given to caviling at details! Must I fight another battle to claim the knighthood that is mine? I will, and for that I am generous even unto my enemies, you may choose the weapon. Sack, ale, or canary? As for thee, my fair Agnes, wilt thou not kiss me and forgive me?” He bowed as well as he could, considering that most of the pies were in the way.
Agnes blushed like a young girl and giggled. The mountainous knight gulped. “No need for that.”
“Upon my knighthood, I am glad that we understand each other so well.”
“Rise up, Sir John Falstaff, Knight of the Burning Pies.”
Here's a bit of silly Shakes-fic to celebrate, inspired by a comment either from angevin2 herself, or someone on her f-list.
The stranger sat all day in the marketplace with a placard around his neck that read “My Knighthood To Him Who Can Beat Me.”
Most of the townsfolk eyed him warily, which was not surprising as he was approximately the size of a small mountain. Only two or three young gallants dared to approach him and ask his choice of weapon; and when the knight explained the exact nature of the contest he proposed, they all blanched and scuttled to the far edge of the marketplace.
“WHAT?” roared the mountainous knight. “IS THERE NO ONE IN NORFOLK WHO DARES CHALLENGE ME? YE BASE, COWARDLY, RECREANTS, NOT WORTHY THE NAME OF ENGLISHMEN!”
An angry murmur ran through the marketplace; yet no one stepped forward to take up the challenge.
“Bring out the lad o’ the castle,” said Agnes, the old pastry-cook. “He could beat him.”
Some said he could and some said he couldn’t, and some said that Agnes ought to be ashamed of herself for leading the poor lad out to the slaughter when she stood to make a handsome profit on the combat. Nonetheless, the voices in favor of the contest grew louder, and at last most of the people in the marketplace were shouting, “BRING OUT THE LAD O’ THE CASTLE!”
A messenger was dispatched to the castle, and returned half an hour later with one of the Duke’s pages. He was a well-grown boy of about fifteen, rosy-cheeked and somewhat thick about the waist, though as yet nowhere near the size of the mountainous knight.
The betting grew fast and furious. “Ten pence on our Jack.” “A shilling on the stranger; look at the size of him!” “Our lad’s younger.” “Aye, but he’s not had the practice.” “The Duke ought to put a stop to it - they’ll both kill themselves.” “That they might, but the young one will beat. Look at the gleam in his eye.”
At last the betting settled down, and a place was appointed for the contest. Trumpets sounded, and ladies showered the champions with favors. “BRING OUT THE PIES!” cried the crowd.
It was an epic battle. It went on for nearly three hours, and most of Agnes’ wares were destroyed, along with two geese, a basket of apples, and a great wheel of cheese.
At last the mountainous knight put up his hands in surrender and staggered, green-faced, behind a bush. The victorious lad wiped his mouth and called for a half-gallon of ale.
“You did promise me a knighthood, sir,” said the boy when the defeated champion returned. “Give it me, or else I name thee recreant and caitiff coward - not to mention loser.”
The mountainous knight sighed, swayed on his feet and looked for a moment like he might be sick again. “Thy name, boy?”
“Jack Falstaff. Sir John Falstaff, Knight of the Burning Pies.”
“Thou seemst to have dubbed thyself knight already,” grumbled the mountainous knight - although few people heard him, because Agnes chose the same moment to cry indignantly, “They were NOT BURNT!”
Falstaff rolled his eyes heavenward. “Lord, Lord, how this world is given to caviling at details! Must I fight another battle to claim the knighthood that is mine? I will, and for that I am generous even unto my enemies, you may choose the weapon. Sack, ale, or canary? As for thee, my fair Agnes, wilt thou not kiss me and forgive me?” He bowed as well as he could, considering that most of the pies were in the way.
Agnes blushed like a young girl and giggled. The mountainous knight gulped. “No need for that.”
“Upon my knighthood, I am glad that we understand each other so well.”
“Rise up, Sir John Falstaff, Knight of the Burning Pies.”