KING JOHN’S MESSENGER WON’T FORGET HIS VISIT TO us.
During the night, he had to go out to the latrine five times, though I only heard him when he cursed and woke little Luke, and then cursed again.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed. “God’s guts!”
In the morning, his face was as grey as ash. “What do you eat out here?” he said. “In the Marches.”
“Are you all right?” I asked him. “Slim could boil you some eggs, and mix the yolks with vinegar.”
The messenger groaned. “You know how it is,” he said. “The first time was so sudden I didn’t think I’d get there—in the dark and all. These candles of yours, they’re rotten, too. And the second time doubled me right up with cramp. I didn’t know which end it was going to come out of. The third time was worst, though. I thought it was turning me inside out.”
“Like Lip!” I exclaimed.
“What?”
“Lip, the Welsh warrior. He used to pull his upper lip over his head and his lower lip down to his navel. Like armor. To protect himself.”
“Disgusting!” said the messenger. “The fourth time felt like I was burning. Burning! It took my breath away. The fifth time was just curds and whey. After that, I couldn’t stop shivering.”
The messenger looked at me strangely, and then he gasped and clutched his stomach. “God’s guts!” he exclaimed, and he turned and half-walked, half-ran out of the hall.