Lady Vivian didn't know she had been enchanted, and she knew nothing of the kind of love that could save her. King Olaf's impetuous daughter was destined for adventure.
“What on earth is Lady Vivian doing in the chicken yard?” asked Sir Peter, as he entered the knights’ barracks.
“She’s trying to catch a chicken!” replied one of the squires crowded around the windows. “She’s been at it for half an hour!” The young men were doubling over with laughter.
“I can’t believe it,” Sir Peter said. “Is she unwell?”
“She seemed well enough today,” young Michael said, “I heard her shouting at her maid, as she usually does, this morning while I lit the fires in the keep. But maid Bridget says Lady Vivian went to the kitchen and asked Cook to teach her to make roasted chicken, and Cook said she must learn to catch a chicken if ever she was to learn to cook one, and the Lady has been chasing chickens ever since.”
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Courage: The Tale of Sir William of Deira
"Sir William, help me!" Lady Sarah dangled precariously from a tree limb, desperately trying to hang on as the ferocious wolves snapped at her heels. It took all of his strength, but Sir William managed to overcome the beast that had been attacking him and took up his sword to fight off the rest of the pack. They were no match for him. The last beast fell as the lady lost her grip, and Sir William turned just in time to catch the beautiful golden-haired maid and set her gently on the ground. "My hero!" she said with a swoon, "You are the bravest knight who ever lived and I love you forever."
William sat down and set his sword on the ground. It was, in actuality, a stick. He kicked over the carcasses of the dead wolves which, in reality, were baskets for the summer vegetables he was supposed to be harvesting. Five-year-old Sarah sat down beside him and affectionately rested her head against his arm. She was twenty years his junior, the daughter of a common farmer (although to William there was nothing at all common about her), and in sad reality had recently become an orphan.
William sat down and set his sword on the ground. It was, in actuality, a stick. He kicked over the carcasses of the dead wolves which, in reality, were baskets for the summer vegetables he was supposed to be harvesting. Five-year-old Sarah sat down beside him and affectionately rested her head against his arm. She was twenty years his junior, the daughter of a common farmer (although to William there was nothing at all common about her), and in sad reality had recently become an orphan.
Gwaine and the Holy Sister
Chapter 1
“Wake up, sir! Have you no shame? Wake up!”
Gwaine began to be aware that someone was kicking him. It was a woman, and she wasn’t kicking him very hard, but the kicking was waking him up, which was annoying.
“Where is your honor, sir? This is disgraceful! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Gwaine saw that he was lying curled up in front of a door in a courtyard. He hadn’t the foggiest recollection of how he had gotten there, but for Gwaine this was not a terribly unusual sensation. He shaded his eyes from the morning sunlight and looked up at his attacker. A very young and pretty nun was relentlessly kicking his posterior.
Gwaine tried to obey and sit up, but found it hard to move, and he felt as if his head were made of lead. This, too, was a familiar sensation. He rolled away from the woman and tried again to sit up.
“Good heavens!” she said. “You smell like a distillery, and I have no doubt that you’ve drunk enough to pickle an entire field of cucumbers, but look at you--you’re bleeding.” Gwaine slowly sat up and looked at his shirt. It did, indeed have blood on it. Upon further inspection he was able to verify that it was his own, from a moderate gash on his abdomen. He hadn’t yet noticed the red and purple welt across the left side of his face.
“Owwwww,” he said.
“Wake up, sir! Have you no shame? Wake up!”
Gwaine began to be aware that someone was kicking him. It was a woman, and she wasn’t kicking him very hard, but the kicking was waking him up, which was annoying.
“Where is your honor, sir? This is disgraceful! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Gwaine saw that he was lying curled up in front of a door in a courtyard. He hadn’t the foggiest recollection of how he had gotten there, but for Gwaine this was not a terribly unusual sensation. He shaded his eyes from the morning sunlight and looked up at his attacker. A very young and pretty nun was relentlessly kicking his posterior.
Gwaine tried to obey and sit up, but found it hard to move, and he felt as if his head were made of lead. This, too, was a familiar sensation. He rolled away from the woman and tried again to sit up.
“Good heavens!” she said. “You smell like a distillery, and I have no doubt that you’ve drunk enough to pickle an entire field of cucumbers, but look at you--you’re bleeding.” Gwaine slowly sat up and looked at his shirt. It did, indeed have blood on it. Upon further inspection he was able to verify that it was his own, from a moderate gash on his abdomen. He hadn’t yet noticed the red and purple welt across the left side of his face.
“Owwwww,” he said.
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