Extract:
Upon receipt of this manly and justified rebuke, he began gibbering in French, and uttering the foulest profanities, or so I presume them to have been, for of all foreign languages French has always appeared to me the most impenetrable. German, Dutch and Flemish are evidently debased versions of our own fair tongue, whilst even the jabberings of the primitive Welsh and Irish seem less outlandish than the consonantless grunting that is French. It has always been incomprehensible to me how a people could learn to express themselves about the ordinary things of life in such a bizarre language.
After further exchange of insults, seeing that he possessed the stronger and fleeter mount, the cowardly knave made to strike me. But the valiant Pistol was too quick for him, closing with him in a trice and tumbling him from his horse. Thereafter, albeit handicapped by our priestly vestments, we stood toe to toe in the dusty village street and traded blows with a vengeance. To be fair, he gave a better account of himself than I had expected from one of his corpulence, and a frog-eater into the bargain. At any rate, several minutes later the fat knave was still on his feet, though naturally tiring under the ruthless succession of hammer-blows showered upon him by the enraged Pistol. Needless to say we had meanwhile attracted a crowd of verminous degenerates from the village, who urged us on with enthusiasm, many of them miming blows against spectral antagonists of their own.
‘A groat on the fat one!’ cried some fool.
‘Done!’ cried another with more sense. ‘The foul-mouthed ruffian is lasting the pace better.’ I will concede that in the intervals of trading blows I had occasionally given spirited verbal vent to my feelings, but deny that my language was as stated.
‘Right!’ agreed a third. ‘For I’ll wager any Englishman, however putrid a knave, more than a match for a fat frog-eater. Who got stuffed at Crecy, frog-face? And Poitiers?’
Methinks this gibe struck home, for the dastardly Father Jacques threw him a glance of such hellish malevolence that he omitted to pay full attention to Ancient Pistol, a grievous error indeed. Amidst scenes of the wildest enthusiasm, I delivered the varlet a monstrous blow to the nose, tapping the claret well and truly, and tumbling him to the ground. I was about to deliver the coup de grâce in the form of a swift kick to the cullions, when behind me I heard again a well-hated voice.
‘So! What have we here? Hence, home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday?’
‘A sort of naughty persons,’ provided one of his henchmen, ‘lewdly bent.’
As all but the most obtuse readers will have gathered, it was the dreaded Maxwell again, together with the loutish, bullying knaves he takes about with him. Albeit with much justified grumbling, those watching the fight allowed themselves to be browbeaten into forgoing their undoubted rights as Englishmen to observe and express their opinion upon any matter they saw fit. I was however pleased to note that many of them still retained sufficient spirit to hurl insults and opprobrious epithets at the lawmen from a safe distance.
‘Oh, ho!’ quoth Maxwell with infernal glee. ‘I might have known! That ubiquitous knave Pistol! And in the habit of a friar. ’Tis a new one for thee, Pistol, is’t not? But brawling in the street alas, is not, thou bad bugger.’
I drew myself up to my full height. ‘I trust you are not under the impression that I am the aggressor here. All I have done is defend myself, as would any man of spirit. ’Twas yonder frog-eating knave attacked me without provocation.’
My adversary, who meanwhile had been spluttering to himself in the outlandish tongue of his countrymen, exploded in a fat ball of indignation. ‘Zounds! Sayst zis varlet so? Who says it was, ’e lies! I say, ’twas not!’
He continued in similar vein, but I marked him not, preferring to maintain a dignified silence. ‘So,’ said Maxwell thoughtfully. ‘Let us review the position. We have a dispute betwixt two knaves who choose to settle their differences by brawling in a public place. The one is a fat, poxy frog-eater unknown to us, the other the notorious Ancient Pistol, whom alas, we know only too well. Whom do we believe, mates?’
‘Neither,’ chorused his villainous henchmen.
He nodded. ‘Right you are, men. Neither.’
‘Zis is an outrage,’ spluttered the frog-eater. ‘’Is ’Oliness shall ’ear of zis, and you shall all be excommunicate!’
‘Ha, ha!’ cried the constable, amidst well-merited hilarity from his men. ‘Thou mayst threaten and bluster all thou wilt, obese frog-eater that thou art. For well we Englishmen do know, the Pope’s writ runs but slowly here. By the time he hears of thy complaint, even should he act upon it – which in th’absence of a bribe the size of thy belly is unlikely – the chances are we shall all be dead long afore the question be settled.’
‘Ze archbishop, zen! Such insult to ze cloff will not be tolerate!’
‘Maybe,’ mused Maxwell, ‘he might be prepared to intervene on behalf of an English priest, but a puffed-up frog-eater, never. Methinks thou’lt have to appeal to the Bishop of Rouen, or some place never heard of. Such poxy foreigners cut no ice with us plain English folk.’
I found myself reluctantly beginning to warm to Maxwell, until he turned to me. ‘As for thee, Pistol, what on earth possessed thee to dress up as a friar I know not, unless ’twere to have thy filthy, fornicating way with some deluded female. We all know some of them are easy meat for friars.’
‘Maybe he should be brought before an ecclesiastical court,’ mused one of his men, ‘and if found guilty, excommunicated.’
I nodded, deciding that I could face such a prospect with fortitude. ‘And scourged, of course,’ added another of his henchmen. ‘The church seem very keen on scourging lately.’
I began to find the prospect of ecclesiastical justice less inviting. ‘Maybe,’ said Maxwell thoughtfully. ‘I admit myself to be but little versed in such niceties, having no time for canting priests and their like. But it seemeth simplest and fairest to avoid all such quibbles, by – ’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I groaned.
‘Aye, Pistol. The stocks it shall be for both on ye, bogus friar and frog-eater alike. Come, men, convey these knaves to the Corn Hill stocks. There shall they sit all day, and all night too. Neither shall be released till dawn or later, should my men prove not early risers.’
They grinned. ‘I have been feeling a little fatigued of late,’ confessed one, the mouldy knave, ‘and thought I might catch up on some sleep. I doubt if I shall be abroad much afore noon, myself.’
‘Nor I,’ quoth another of his ruffianly colleagues.
‘No reason to bestir yourselves too early, lads,’ agreed Maxwell. ‘For ’tis true you’ve been mighty busy lately.’ He gestured to me. ‘Thanks not a little to yon varlet.’
From my previous experience, I knew the constable deaf to reasoned argument, but my frog-eating adversary continued to splutter and threaten dire vengeance. ‘So,’ said Maxwell thoughtfully. ‘Insult and threaten an officer of the law, wouldst thou? Thou bad bugger.’
‘Monstrous,’ said I, shaking my head sorrowfully. ‘And meriting in my view condign punishment.’
‘Seldom indeed do I agree with thee, base Pistol,’ said the constable, ‘but for once thou’st spoken truth.’ He turned to Father Jacques. ‘O frog-eating knave, thou seem’st yet more incorrigibly depraved e’en than the vile Pistol. I’the stocks shalt thou stay until midnight …’
I was about to protest, for the constable had condemned me to sit there all night, but his next word set my mind at rest, even persuading me to accept my unjust lot with some measure of equanimity. ‘Tomorrow,’ he added.