Anton's Ideas

Charles II<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/countless/”>Countless</a&gt;

a lovely prompt for a mind like mine!

SOLVING A COUNTLESS PROBLEM

In Mediaeval central France, around the time King Saint Louis IX died in 1270 while on crusade, a small territory in the centre of the Loire valley found itself in a most unfortunate situation. Its countless peasants, merchants, burghers and noblemen found themselves literally Countless. Le Comte Pierre le Pauvre had died in penury, and being a bald bachelor had left no hair or heir.

It was by no means a huge Comté, indeed more like one of the small English counties which abounded at that time, still do. The size of Wiltshire? Yes, maybe so. But, although of little significance politically or strategically, it had one asset which every inhabitant knew  could make them very rich if properly managed. The wine grown on those few banks of the Loire  was of a magnificent quality. Indeed the seven vineyards which claimed to produce the finest wine all insisted that the Knight, Nobleman, merchant or Esquire who owned them should be crowned and consecrated the new Comte. The king was, dead they had heard, so if they arranged things fast enough their new ruler would be in place before any royal command could name another claimant to the title. But two serious problems faced them, one legal, one regal.

The legal one was simple. A scroll in the local cathedral, with copies in the largest chateau  and modest castle, dated back four hundred years to 873 laying down the rules for a Comte to obey  from the day of succession to the title. It said, en bref, that if the incumbent died childless and with no spouse, then whoever was appointed in his place, should both be married reasonably young and be expected to have children to succeed him in abundance. In short it was intended by king Charles II that the title should be hereditary. By an odd coincidence he was also bald, at least history has always given him the nickname  ‘Charles the bald’, but the coincidence ended there for he was succeeded by his son.

But the regal problem was much more in line with  typical French concern for the  taste of the grape than the defence of the realm. Or at least that part of it which produced fine wines. The Comte had to provide the monarch with a cask of the region’s finest vintage, voted by the seven vine growers, every three months. So how did the inhabitants of this typically sleepy Comté resolve the appointment and choice of a new Comte? Well first let us meet the seven owners of the vineyards. To start with by far the wealthiest and, under normal circumstances, the likeliest man to lead the countless people was Sire Robert Bonchance, who lived in the castle. His vineyard produced a really excellent dry, crisp white with a nose of strawberries and wild peaches mixed with gooseberry flavours, which had the added aroma of a South Australian eucalyptus. You know the sort of wine. Goes well with poached white fish and creamed potatoes. It would have been an absolute certain choice  except for the unfortunate fact that neither South Australia nor potatoes had at that time been made known to Western Europe. And Robert had another problem. His wife Mathilde was a positive shrew. She may have had four sturdy sons in five years but the locals all recoiled at the idea of her being given any higher social status than she had.

The two knights of the king’s bodyguard, honorary, who dwelt on that part of the Loire were twins. They each owned a vineyard and loved playfully trying to outdo each other every year when the grapes were trodden. Pierre and Jean-Claude Jumelles  were aged twenty nine, good soldiers, vintners and pals. But there the similarity ended. Much as they loved each other they also loved the same young lady, pretty nineteen year old Hélène Damnaçion daughter of a Basque merchant and his wife who had moved there when she was small.

“Eh alors?” sighed Pierre.

“Quoi, donc!” replied his sibling.”Nous allons ….”

No, look they both spoke perfect Oxford English  …”I say old chap we’d better decide who has the hand of the fair belle Hélène by a feat of arms.” He meant literally by feet and arms. “You game?” His brother was and so they raced each other for a few milia passuum down the Loire in rowing boats. Hélène stood on the bank cheering them on and shouting such loving remarks as, 

“Drown the bastard, Pierre, I never could stand him!”

Her prayers of pious devotion were heard and her knight errant won by a league as their two premierships skimmed the water. However, Jean-Claude took it well and made this proclamation to the crowds on the tow path. “Whatever fair maid shall cross my palm with two groats and a flagon of mead shall have me for a night!” On hearing this Lucette  Geaux whispered to Virginie Cémois,

“Je tink ‘e means knight.” But she was too slow, Charolotte Isine  had rushed forward, mead and groats at the ready, and told him she was already his. One might say she was ready maid and his luck was in. Unfortunately three of the older wine growers, while rich in money and with superior fruit, were all at least forty years old. Albert Orl, Pascale Planche  and Guy de la Musée all had good wives too and fine young boys, but their only hope of conquering the countless inhabitants was by somehow rigging the vote, for none had the bearing or  brains of a Comte. And then they all stared at the owner of the seventh vineyard. They had forgotten the rules or else, in the excitement of the chase for ça qui Comte, had not realised their dilemma. 

The seventh contestant was Blanche Neige, the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, let alone the Comté. What on earth were the countless countless to do. They could make her a Comptesse too, but did she have to be married to a noble? The scroll said nothing about gender, it had been hand copied by a scribe called  N.Carolina. So the six wine growers decided to ask her if she would be prepared to pick any handsome man of her choice, give him her grapes and then they would agree her wine would be the best and they would all withdraw in favour of her suitor. Blanche was staggered at their effrontery. “But, mes amis, ‘ow you say? I would win for my wine’s best anyway. I’ll be LA COMTE et mon mari”  (French for hubby bur she forgot, it was an English speaking plot) will be LE COMTESSE, what’s wrong with that?

Well of course nowadays nothing at all. But in France, some seven hundred and fifty years ago, transgendering the aristocracy was almost as bad as publicly admitting the nobles already had. So the vintners put it to two votes. First which was the superior wine because if a man won everything would be fine. And secondly, in case it was Blanche, they decided to create the first female Comte. In truth the countless countless could not wait to see what the new king’s reaction would be. But Blanche still had to find a hubby and suddenly had a super plan, hastening to the king’s coronation up North. He took one look at her and cried, “Ma Cherie!” which basically meant would she be queen? She agreed and told him she was also Le Comtesse, de somewhere on the Loire. He could not care less. He just took down her title and added it to his own and added her possessions to the crown.

So that left the countless countless countless still. But at least they did not have to cross dress every time they wished to relieve themselves in a public place.

AWE

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/shadow/”>Shadow</a&gt;

an apology if I’ve upset anyone

HELP

My briefest ever post. If I upset you with my true story a few minutes ago, A Shadow of his Former Self, I apologise. It is just a subject I feel so incredibly strongly about that I would ask all of you to pray for help for all children and adults caught up in such a situation. There are far too many cases in Britain.

AWE

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/beach/”>Beach</a&gt;

ONE BEACH, ONE HEAVENLY SHORE

Asif felt the tiny make-shift raft bob up and down on the waters of the Aegean Sea. Land was in the distance, but far, far off. As far as he could see. Only his sister’s hand in his, as she slept, kept him in touch with any sort of reality. His mother and father had thrown them on their hastily assembled craft shouting “We love you. May Allah bring you safely to some foreign shore.”

Asif was only five years old and had lived all his days surrounded by angry shouting men, and ran rather than danced to the beat of guns. He knew he had to pray to Allah, but he had never been taught how. His kinsfolk had never had the time for luxuries like teaching between their daily forages for food in a land of mortar shells and flying stones. He looked at little Samia, a year younger than himself, and felt a glow of strength as he held her hand.

“Allah, whoever you are, wherever you are, don’t let my little sister die,” was all the little boy could ask and then, despite his new found valour, started to cry. A day and a night, a night and a day the little raft zig-zagged over the waves but Asif was sure the land was getting near. Samia had given him the few drops of water from the plastic bottle in her pocket and any crumbs that were left from their parents’ meagre pouch. Her big brown, sunken eyes looked pleadingly at her brother.

“Asif, I am hot and cold and hungry. Tell Allah for me, please.”  Once more the little boy begged his only source of hope to save them both, then brother and sister clung to each other all night for warmth. As daylight dawned on the third day they stared in amazement at the land ahead. A sandy beach was getting nearer every second. Their spirits rose as salvation seemed at hand. But a final hazard still delayed them. The wind got up and several yards short of sanctuary the raft at last gave out and sank. Samia could not swim but Asif made her cling to him, her arms round his neck as he made for the shallow waters from which he finally could walk to the beach. On land they both smiled and collapsed.

Father Francisco was taking his morning stroll along the sand before returning to say Mass as he did every morning on the tiny island with its hermit’s cell and altar. Other brothers would not visit him before lunchtime. Suddenly he blinked in disbelief, rubbed his eyes and stared again. He thought it was a mirage at first, a trick of the green sea light, but no, a little boy and girl lay on the beach. Blessing himself, thanking God and guessing their origin he thanked his Lord again  for teaching him some basic Arabic as well as Italian. He knelt and offered his hands to the little waifs.

Asif stared at this strange figure clad all in brown with a circle cut in his hair. He had but one thought in his head and, barely audibly, asked the hermit,

“Are you Allah? I asked you to help little Samia and me, and you did. Thank you Allah. Thank you.”

Tears streaming down his cheeks Father Francisco replied  in the little boy’s own tongue. “It was the will of Allah that you should be found, I am merely the person he chose to help Him. Come, I will find you some food.” As they walked towards his dwelling he  went on, “Children, there is only one God. He made us all. You call him Allah, I Christ, many people use many other names. But He does not mind. He is just glad that he has been able to show you how much he loves you by bringing you safely to this beach, this heavenly shore.”

AWE   

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/abandoned/”>Abandoned</a&gt;

FEELINGS THAT CAN’T BE MIXED

James was feeling really lonely. Christine had promised to meet him after school and that was an hour ago now. It was the third day in a row she had stood him up and he had had enough. No way was he going to give her a fourth chance. They were both 18, both very much in love, he thought, but now he felt his world crumbling. Bob was obviously her preferred choice and James shrugged his sad shoulders and slouched his way back home dejected and abandoned.

Bob had always known how James felt about Christine and supposed he did not really have a hope of getting the opportunity to tell her how he felt. She must have picked up something from the words and hints he had dropped, and she was pleasant and never made fun of him. But did she have to stand him up for the third day in a row? That was cruel and unnecessary. Finally he slung his bag over his back and walked slowly home, dejected and abandoned.

Christine did not know what to do. She was feeling dreadful about both James and Bob because she liked them both and wanted either of them to help her. But how could she ask? She kept choking at the last minute, agreeing to meet one and then the other and now it was three days in a row that she had disappointed them both. Oh Lord, what should she do? Her best friend Maddy was just coming out of the school gates. Finally Christine plucked up the courage and decided to ask her advice.

“Maddy. Look, I’ve got a real problem and I’m hurting two people badly what shall I do? They both have said they really want to help me and I’ve said I want them to, but I just can’t bring myself to talk to either of them about you.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Maddy, shrugging in apparent unconcern. “You’ve become a clinging bore,Chris, and I’m going out with Sarah this weekend. Sorry, loser, but it’s finished.”

Christine stared in disbelief and sat down on the nearest bench to assess the situation. That was three really loving, presumed friends she’d lost in a week. She saw Harry leaving. Slow shy, gawky Harry, always the last in everything. Oh, what the hell, she was that fed up.

“Hey, Harry. You doing anything? Like to come for a coffee?”

“With you?” he replied in almost disgusted surprise.”Give us a break.”

Christine wandered back home, sad, dejected and abandoned.

AWE