There were three medieval kingdoms on the shores of a lake. There was an island in the middle of the lake, which the kingdoms had been fighting over for years. Finally, the three kings decided that they would send their knights out to do battle, and the winner would take the island.
The night before the battle, the knights and their squires pitched camp and readied themselves for the fight.
The first kingdom had 12 knights, and each knight had 5 squires, all of whom were busily polishing armor, brushing horses, and cooking food.
The second kingdom had 20 knights, and each knight had 10 squires. Everyone at that camp was also busy preparing for battle.
At the camp of the third kingdom, there was only one knight, with his squire. This squire took a large pot and hung it from a looped rope in a tall tree. He busied himself preparing the meal, while the knight polished his own armor.
When the hour of the battle came, the three kingdoms sent their squires out to fight (this was too trivial a matter for the knights to join in).
The battle raged, and when the dust cleared, the only person left was the lone squire from the third kingdom, having defeated the squires from the other two kingdoms.
I guess this just proves that the squire of the high pot and noose is equal to the sum of the squires of the other two sides.
A man stumbled into the emergency room dressed in a medieval bard's outfit, clutching his stomach with one hand and moaning in agony. With his free hand he was clutching a lute, which he dropped on the floor
in front of the nurse's station. He then collapsed in a heap on the floor, rolled himself into a fetal position, and began to moan much louder. Fearing serious food poisoning, doctors quickly brought a stretcher out and rolled him into the bowels of the ER. Half an hour later, the man walked past the nurse and out the door, whistling happily to himself. Noticing that the man looked much healthier, the nurse asked one of the doctors what was ailing the man. The doctor shrugged and said "nothing big....just minstrel cramps."
A woman and her little girl were visiting the grave of the little girl's grandmother. On their way through the cemetery back to the carriage, the little girl asked, "Mommy, do they ever bury two people in the same grave?"
"Of course not, dear." replied the mother, "Why would you think that?"
"The tombstone back there said 'Here lies a lawyer and an honest man.'"
Two members of a
small monastery decided to open a florist shop to help raise money for their
good works. The idea of buying beautiful flowers from gentle friars appealed to
a lot of people in the town, and soon they were flocking to the shop.
Meanwhile, the
florist across town saw his business virtually disappear when all his customers
began buying flowers from the monks. He thought the monks had an unfair
advantage, so he visited them and asked them to return to the monastery and
leave business to merchants. They politely declined.
So he visited the
monastery and asked the Abbot to convince the monks to abandon the business. He
declined as well.
Next the florist
sent his mother, his parish priest and his children to visit the monks, asking
them to cease their business so the original florist could make a living. It
didn't work.
Finally, in
desperation, the florist hired the town thug, Hughson McNasty, to use personal
persuasion. Hugh McNasty showed up one night with a cudgel, shattered the
windows of the monk's shop, tossed their flowers out into the street, and gave
the monk's black eyes, promising them he'd be back unless they closed their
business.
Terrified, the monks
shut their store and returned to the monastery.
Proving, of course...
... Hugh and only Hugh can
prevent florist friars.
A famous Viking
explorer returned home from a voyage and found his name missing from the town
register. His wife insisted on
complaining to the local civic official who apologized profusely saying,
"I must have taken Leif off my census."
A King retired his
throne after a particularly hard 6 months and realized a life-long dream of
buying a bird-hunting estate in Western Ansteorra. He invited an old friend to
visit for a week of pheasant shooting.
The friend was in
awe of the Duke's new bird dog, "Lord". The dog could point, flush and
retrieve with the very best, and the friend offered to buy the dog at any
price. The Duke declined, saying that "Lord" was the very best bird
dog he had ever owned and that he wouldn't part with him at any price.
A year later the
same friend returned for another week of hunting and was surprised to find his
friend breaking in a new dog. "What happened to ole Lord?" he asked.
"Had to shoot
him," grumbled the Duke. "A friend came to hunt with me and couldn't
remember the dog's name. He kept calling him "Sir". After that, all
the dog would do was sit on his ass and bark."
Belted: a knight who had to much to drink
Unbelted: arrived at the party too
late
Vambrace: what Van Damme wears on his
knee
Sword: what happens to your thigh when
your shield work is lousy
Laurel: a Hardy individual
Peer: found in rest rooms across the
country
Axe: what you need to do in order to
get an answer
Tunica: an Country near Libica. Re:
Tunic Wars.
Kilt: what the Scot did to the English
fop
King: "Sit, King! Sit! Good
boy!"
Prince: SEE: King.
Pelican: the pell you can't!
Outlands: right next door to Innylands.
West: What Wobin Hood wequired after wescuing
Maid Mawion.
An Tir: What an weeping person has.
Constable: someone opposed to housing horses indoors
Bridge battle: when you try to wear your wife's partial
false teeth
Roman: the urge to walk around and incorporate
countries
Hoopalaunde: Hopalong's big brother
Viking: sort of like a Viscount only better
Medieval: not quite evil enough
Greave: what you do when the goldfish floats
Count: Scots for "can not". Ex; "Ah
count dew et! Ets tew beg, ah teel ya!"
Duke: "In coming!"
Rattan: Most of these jokes are rattan and stinking
up the place.
Monarch: A creature that flutters by every 6 months
Short sword: It's not the size, it's how you use it.
Coif: A knightly hairstyle.
Cuir boulli: Monsieur Boulii was very happy when he was
cured.
Scabbard: An Egyptian bug worn by soldiers.
Duke: A person from Earl.
Earl: What "y" haters are when they are
not tard.
Consort: What the victors of Crown Tourney want to
do after the reveling.
Lay On!: What they shout right before consorting.
SCA fighting: The only place where grown men can hit each
other with sticks and not get arrested.
Chronicler: Someone who continually writes and won't
stop.
Seneschal: A cloak of office.
Brigade: what military prisoners drink
Period camp: what Shakespeare wrote
Mead: a Viking contraction of: me need. Usage:
"Mead a drink!"
Once there was this monastery in 15th century Europe that had a problem. The Monks needed funding, and their treasury was low. So they
decided to hold a revival meeting (medieval style.)
First, one of the brothers started banging on this really loud, raucous drum, and shouting out the evils of sin. Then they had some minstrels come in and sing a few hymns. After which they preached a sermon, and passed around the collection plate.
When it was all over they evaluated the outcome, and the people of the town decided that all else went well, but all the ladies present said that the pre-minstrel sin drum was really the pits.
By the 15th century, the Templar Knights had disappeared, but deep in the bowels of the British Museum in a case well sealed and protected lays a strange memorial to their impact on the city of London.
London of the early 12th century was on its way to becoming an impressive city, but its life and its blood was the Thames River.
Without the river commerce would grind to a halt as the people of London discovered to their horror in 1216........
The first ships seemed simply to have disappeared, but the monster wasted little time in this caution. Soon, many Londoners had seen the gaping maw licked by flames dragging a hapless crew to its death. It was a fire salamander, and in the Autumn of 1216 it was estimated to be 40 feet long with jaws that gaped 10 feet wide.
By the spring of 1217, the monster was no longer a nuisance, it was a deadly plague. No boat could navigate the Thames... no raft was small enough, no ship was large enough to resist the demon of the Thames. Worse, the beast was growing! The latest reports called it 70 feet long with jaws opening 15 feet. Our instinct is to discount this absurd growth, and yet few could impeach its source.
He, our source, enters the story in August of 1217. London had begged, prayed, blasphemed, and killed in desperate attempts to exorcise or appease their curse; to no avail. On June 14, four men painted themselves with the Devil's Cross and proclaimed themselves the Dark Priests of the Beast. They built a ship and doused it in oil; then, they sailed it down the river. Dark Priests they may have been, but they died screaming like any man. On July 28, London sent three virgins (the youngest not yet 13) down the Thames to the monster. It was thought that this would appease the evil god: the monster's hunger exceeded even this atrocity.
On August 23, our source received his summons. His given name is lost in his chosen name: Honorus. He was a Templar Knight and possibly a
saint. That morning, he was commanded to destroy the beast. London in fear and desperation had turned to their most jealous weapon, the Templars... warrior monks who fought with the fierce, perhaps fanatic, frenzy of the devout. The city had exhausted all other options; the monks were its last hope, and Honorus was the greatest of the Knights.
The battle was truly a footnote to his preparation... Honorus ventured into the woods upstream from London. He forsook shelter, clothing, food, and sleep for four days, meditating on the coming struggle. When the four days ended, he stalked and killed a stag without weapon or aid. With the skin of the stag he made clothing; from its flesh he regained his strength; and with its guts, he lashed five logs into a raft fit for his purpose.
Honorus set the raft in motion. He had outfitted himself with the only item he would use in this fight which had not come out of the forest with him. A sword of Spanish steel, blue with the sky, lay in his lap. Soon, he felt the swell of the water disturb his raft: the monster was coming; yet he sat unmoving.
The beast broke the surface.
No human is perfect; a splinter of the collapsing raft clipped Honorus' left foot as he leapt into the water. He had timed his jump slightly too late, but no matter, the injury will not be important until after the battle.
The monster was above the water only momentarily; time enough for Honorus to drive his sword between two of its scales. The monster thrashed in pain, turning its exposed flesh from the steaming water. Honorus was lifted from the water as the beast rolled. He gauged his stroke and leapt, striking the monster's eye.
Angered and half blinded, the beast threw Honorus into the river and grasped him in its immense jaws. Honorus swam quickly past the teeth
into the monster's mouth. Inside, the questing tongue scalded his feet as he searched for purchase again, and we shall ignore this injury for now.
Once he had braced himself inside the beast's mouth, pushing with all his strength against the slowly rising tongue, he took aim. Honorus
had time to make only one thrust.
When his journal recalls these events, it attributes Honorus' "luck" in this battle to aid from the Divine. We do not wish to detract from
the glory of God, but surely He will not envy His servant. Is it coincidence that Honorus' blade struck true to the brain? Honorus had already studied carefully the anatomy of the salamander a week before he was summoned to fight the beast. Did Honorus not know that the water's rush against the beast's exposed flank would cause it such pain? In his journal, "August 24: And once I am atop the beast and it has rolled from the water, where then to strike?"
Two weeks after Honorus was told to lift the curse of London, the beast was dead. The next day London celebrated Honorus; the town would
live because of him. Three days later, gratitude had disappeared.
The body of the beast had lodged itself firmly in the mire less than half a mile downstream of London. Although it was yet intact (perhaps
due to its incredible armor), it would surely soon rot. While not so great a terror, the rotting beast would be almost as dangerous as the live beast, attracting disease and scavengers. No ship could move the carcass. The people of London called upon Honorus.
Honorus' solution was difficult but practical, and he began as soon as he had retrieved his sword. He fasted for two days; then, he ate the cooked meat of the huge salamander and fasted for a third day. When he suffered no ill effects, Honorus began dissecting the beast. With the help of London, Honorus soon had all the usable meat and intestines of the dead beast transformed into sausage.
A bizarre solution it was, but a good one. The sausage was soon discovered to be excellent and to keep easily for very long periods of time. Even more important, the sausage fast became incredibly popular throughout England and much of Europe. It began to reestablish the fame of London's trade after the Hiatus of the Beast.
Still, Honorus has one final contribution to this history... It became vital that everyone knew from whence the incredible sausage of London came, and thus we return to Honorus' injuries.
After the battle with the live beast and the crisis of the dead beast, Honorus took time to recover. Six weeks after he was first summoned, he was dressing the injuries on his feet. The problems of London were known to him. As he dipped a strip of paper like gauze into a healing salve, he had a thought.
One week later, each sausage shipped from London carried a fascinating new development: a label. Just as the gauze dried and closed on Honorus' foot, the parchment around these sausages was attached; and all would know the fame of London from each link she sold.
In the end, despite all his other feats, it was this idea, the product label, that survived Honorus. In tribute to this advance, the British Museum houses the only known surviving label from Honorus' sausages. And although even the tough gut of the Beast has long since faded to dust, the label may still be read. If our reader could go to the Museum and enter the Medieval wing's most treasured collection, she could still read, in faint letters, the Label of Honor: ... It Was The Beast Of Thames, It Was The Wurst Of Thames....