IT’S STRANGE. LAST NIGHT, I TRIED TO REMEMBER ALL THE songs I’ve made up, and they’re always about strong feelings, like love-fever and fighting-fever. Feelings are running high here now. Last night, Lord Stephen and Sir William had another argument, I don’t know what about, and Serle told Simona she was a sow, and Rhys accused Serle and me of caring more about our boots than our horses. The French are building siege engines, and everyone’s waiting for orders, and wherever you go you hear gossip and terrible new rumors:
Nobody’s sure what so-and-so really said
But everyone knows someone who knows,
Roundabout it goes, and we all suppose.
A says the abbot says that, boiled and lightly salted, a Saracen’s like rabbit, and you should wash him down with sherbet.…B says the count’s a reckling, a runt, and rides out at night, and grows a snout and fangs.…
Round and round, round again it goes,
And somewhere between word and word and word,
Everything worsens as the gossip-wind blows.
What about the Doge? C says he’ll stop at nothing, gouge out eyes, drown men in sludge, scourge them with flames.…D says if only the marquis were here, then something I don’t understand about a black girl, a chalice, a pear.…
Nobody’s quite sure, though we all know each word,
But no one cares and no one counts the cost
When roundabout it goes, and we all suppose,And truth and honor and trust lie lost.