Y Coch a'r y Gwyn – Wægn îsig ac dôð read

The Red and the White

As always, v0.2, first revision

A longer tale based on a single paragraph written for The Ankh-Morpork Times – News of The Disc on Facebook. I wrote a one paragraph response to a posting, recognised its ultimate source (primal British myth shared by Celt, Saxon and Norman alike), and thought – why stop here?


Historical Note, prepared by Miss Alice Band (Guild of Historians), principal tutor in History, Archaeology (Stealth and Conventional), Climbing, Traps, Evasion and Archery, at the Assassins' Guild School. With input from two gifted pupils.

Again, the reader is reminded that at this distance in Time, we are necessarily working at the interface between Myth and History. History is, to a given value of the word, immutable and deals with the known facts. We know Lancre had a king called Uther Penferret, who was married to a Queen from the relatively nearby coastal state of Kernawack. A land long since absorbed into its neighbours of Llamedos and Hergen, but which, nearly two millenia ago, was a independent state which still had to perform the equivalent of a gymnastic act on a high-wire to maintain its independence. Kernawack survived in much the same manner as Djelibeybi or Urabewe in our time: by persuading its powerful neighbours that the less of a shared border they had over which wars could be fought, the better. For a Central Continent example, observe the way the Fistulan country stands between the two dominant ethnicities of Überwald and by its existence maintains both the peace and its own precarious independence.(1)

The name of the Kernawackian Queen of Lancre has not precisely been recorded in History; the three or four variant forms of her name are testament to this being the fulcrum point in the history of Lancre where the relative proportions of Myth and History are equally balanced, with History beginning to get the upper hand. But Myth is never fully absent, in any nation's history. This lesson is there, obvious and apparent, in the Tales of Lancre, that the body of History wears the clothes and the cloak of Myth. Always. As my students demonstrate in their re-telling of Birdwhistle's Myths and Legends.

Her name may not be accurately recorded, but the actions of this Queen, even by default, served to shape the history of the land of Lancre.

Lancre, at least 1500 years before "the present day"

Nimue Weatherwax returned to her cottage. She had been hoping nobody was watching. But she walked with her head held high, daring anyone to make comment or to draw attention to…

She opened the back door(2) and entered. Then breathed a sigh that was half exasperation and half relief. She glared at the kettle hanging over the hearth. A hot drink was in order. Maybe something with ground acorns in it, and maybe just a hint of valerian root. Chip a bit of sugar off the puncheon.

As the fire in the hearth flared into life, Nimue looked for the hammer and chisel needed for the puncheon. But first…

The Royal Palace, Lancre

The old Wizard bent over the bubbling flasks in his workroom. The Great Work would soon be finished, then. He adjusted a temperature, frowned, and added a little more nameless concentrate to the flask. The elixir of youth would soon be ready to apply…

He considered the current Royal Palace. Several hundred years old and in need of renovation. Or replacement. The king and queen had the best rooms, as of right. The former private quarters of the Legate who had governed Lancrastrium in the name of the Latatian Empire were theirs. The formal fortified villa which had been built on the hilltop still maintained its spacious proportions and its formal reception hall, with a pleasing Latatian floor mosaic and faded murals on the walls. As it had been a military praefectorum, the murals were a bit basic and the sense of humour underpinning them somewhat crude, he admitted. But it was all going to go. And unless the architect of the new castle could find some way of preserving the mosaic floor, that would go too. A pity; it depicted the gods of Cori Celesti playing some sort of board game. Fine workmanship.

He switched off the heating underneath the flask. Just about ready, then. Although it needed to cool first. He studied the contents of the flask for colour, and pronounced himself satisfied.


And Gerontia Ogg met Morgana Garlleg on the edge of Lancre hamlet.

The two witches greeted each other.

"We're going the same way." Morgana said.

"Aye, maybe we are." Gerontia agreed.

There was an uneasy pause. Morgana cleared her throat.

"There's been a lot of, er, thunder and llightning llately." she hazarded.

"Unseasonal." Gerontia agreed. "Wrong time of year."

She paused, reflectively.

"Bloody wet, too. Bad for the crops."

They turned onto the trail to Bad Ass, in silent accord. As the sound of hoofbeats in the distance, at first faint, grew louder, Gerontia nodded to the undergrowth. Morgana understood. The only people who rode horses around here were those who were rich enough to be able to maintain them. Best to watch from cover, till you knew who you were dealing with.

The two Witches moved off-road. After a while Morgana thought she could hear tinkling bells, a counterpoint to the hoofbeats.

"..at every lock of her horse's mane, hung fifty silver bells and nine…" she hummed.

Gerontia shook her head.

"Nah. That's a different Queen, that is." she said. "And touch iron, girl!" (3)

Morgana touched the nearest iron. You never knew.

"Never understood that one." Gerontia mused. "Fifty-nine silver bells on every lock of a horse's mane. Silver weighs heavy. Lots of mane on a horse…"

Morgana sighed and was about to explain about poetic llicence, and then the two riders passed by. The woman was startlingly blonde, expensively dressed, and her white horse did indeed have silver bells threaded into its mane(4), as well as being attached to its harness and tracery. She also seemed to be getting on very well indeed with the mounted warrior she was with. The two Witches observing from the forest were not even noticed.

Gerontia shook her head as they cantered off into the distance.

"It'll end in tears, mark my words." she said. "Uther said if she goes off for a ride in the countryside, she should have an escort. As befits her status as his Queen, see. So he gives her his best warrior and he sez, Lance, do the honours, would you?"

Morgana looked primly disapproving.

"But the king's chosen knight should be respectfull, he should know his station, and ride at a distance, and watch for perills…"

"What, Lancelot Pegley? Allus been full of himself. That bugger's always had an eye for the ladies. Got him into bother a few times. And nothin's a secret in Lancre, girl. Bet everyone knows, 'cept for Uther!"

"And he never saw us." Morgana remarked.

"Some bloody escort." Gerontia said. "Too much of an eye for her. Queen Migraine. Huh. Nim was right. That woman's a bloody headache."

She shook her head.

"And speakin' of Nim…"

They returned to the path and carried on towards Nimue's cottage.


In his rooms at the Royal Palace, the old wizard studied his cooling brew, one of the nameless potions he had been working on. It was an old Ephebian preparation he'd learnt about at the university when researching in the lore of the preceding centuries, a secret known to none except Wizards.

He considered the magnitude of the move he was making and of the potion he was about to administer to himself. He was seventy-six years old. His hair was grey. He'd never seen the need for this. Until now. He'd met Her. Something in Her called to him. His muse, his anima, his Queen in Red.

His plan was worked out. He would take this in ever more concentrated does over the next weeks. He'd bill it as… well, it would help his image if he made out that he'd found the secret of youth. That he was now growing younger. Reversing ageing. The local peasants would be credulous. They'd believe it.

He dipped a comb into the potion, saturating it. Then he began drawing it through his hair, refreshing it in the liquid every so often…

…and his hair began to look fuller and less grey. (5)


"Blessings upon this house." Morgana said, making the Witch-bow.

"Wotcher, Nim." Gerontia said, stepping in. "Got anythin' to drink on the hearth?"

Nimue glowered at them both, then produced her other two goblets.

She stiffened as she heard Gerontia exclaim

"Ooh, Nim! Somebody bin sendin' you flowers, then?"

Nimue Weatherwax gritted her teeth and chipped sugar off the puncheon perhaps a little more vigorously than it called for, then she poured three goblets of a valerian-and-bergamot and-honey preparation. It had been too much to hope for that Gerontia Ogg would not have noticed. But the flowers, if you could call them that, those damn roses, were there, in the nearest thing to a vase that she could find.

"Spoils the effect, really, that all you could find in a hurry was the guzunder." Gerontia said, critically.

"It's clean." Nimue said, defensively. Her life had not had room for fripperies like vases before. There had been no real call for them as nobody had ever given Nimue Weatherwax flowers. Till now.

Gerontia made a sympathetic noise.

"I'll send one of the girls round with a spare vase, Nim. Got plenty."

Morgana looked critically at the roses. Something was odd about them…

"'sides, you're going to want the guzunder for its proper job…" Gerontia said.

"Hmmph." said Nimue. "Always assuming they're still shaped like roses in the mornin'."

She looked at Morgana and made what might have been an approving nod.

"You worked it out then, girl."

"Ah." Gerontia said. "THOSE sort of flowers. Typical bloody wizards, cheapskates. Never buy a bouquet, when you can magic a bunch of cow parsley you picks out of the ditch to look like roses."

Nimue nodded, as near to ruefully as she could.

"But you din't refuse them."

Nimue Weatherwax shook her head.

"What can you do, Gerontia? He's took it into his head to show me his magic. Thought this spell called Thingy's Surprisin' Bouquet would delight me. Had to accept 'em."

"Ah. He's been tryin' to teach you magic?"

Nimue shrugged, stood up and moved to the waste-bin near the sink. She pulled out a cabbage stalk, soggy, limp and a little bit slimy, and contemplated it. She muttered a few words…

.. and as the octarine flash faded, she was suddenly holding a single long-stemmed rose. She stalked across the room and added it to the other roses in the guzunder.

"He thinks he's bin teachin' me magic. Cheek of the man. Wizard magic's easy if you gets your head in the right place. And I tell you what, Gerontia Ogg. I don't need no bloody staff to point at things."

She extended a thoughtful finger. The two other witches edged out of its way.

"I did notice." Gerontia said, "we bin havin' some unseasonal thunder and lightnin' lately. An' loads of rain."

There was a long reflective silence. The three witches considered their drinks.

"Well, we better go talk to this Wizard what's sweet on our Nim." Gerontia decided.

"And maybe we can find out about what's been happening at the castle too?" Morgana asked.

"good point." Gerontia said.

Nimue frowned.

"Well, gets us in the Castle." she conceded. "Guests of the Wizard. If Queen Headache don't like it, she can complain to him."


The wizard Merddyn, or perhaps Marvin, contemplated the bubbling apparatus on his workbench and nursed it anxiously. The arrangement of glass and metal tubes and flasks, strategically heated by very carefully placed and regulated heat-sources, was commonplace at Unseen University and its supporting service industries in Ankh-Morpork. Merddyn had realised it was completely un-known here, out in the rural sticks, a backwater kingdom separated from the great twin cities by perhaps seven hundred miles of Geography and, he suspected, four or five centuries of Time. He smiled. It was all good advertising for his status as The Great Court Wizard. Bubbling concoctions in flasks, strange chemical smells, droplets of mysterious and odd-smelling liquids being teased out of the end of the distillation tubes and dripping into a flask that was very carefully collecting it, drop by precious drop… and the best of it was that the raw material was abundant here.

He sniffed the air, critically: the smell could be likened to something with yeast and sugar and hops in its distant ancestry, but somehow elevated and lifted and sublimated to a higher plane of existence. It was strong, but not overpowering. It had a sort of chemical knife aspect to it and cleared the sinuses wonderfully. But it wasn't the sort of sniff-this-and-you-die chemical knife edge that some other things had, like boiling acids or mercury fumes.

Merddyn frowned. There was a new occupational class emerging in Ankh-Morpork, one without the thousands of years of experience of wizards. They called themselves alchemists and had a sort of amateurish approach, as if they were somehow drawn to bubbling mercury fumes, and hadn't yet grasped some essential survival skills, like the one concerning dipping your finger in and tasting, just to see what it did. Which, if the it was hydrogen cyanide, made it a short and conclusive lesson.

The Gods made prussic acid that sort of unappealing dark blue-green colour for a reason, the Wizard thought.

He watched the slightly oily clear drips with professional pride. It looked, to the inexperienced eye, like water. But it was lighter somehow, a superior sort of water, water with life, the platonic essence of water and a thousand times more valuable…

"Sublimation." he said to himself.

Then the voice behind him said

"Sublime what, mister?"

The wizard jumped. He thought he'd left clear instructions to the guards not to let anyone in…

Earlier in the day, near the foothills of Copperhead Mountain.

"Impressive." Nimue Weatherwax had said, trying to sound impressed and enthusiastic.

The Wizard beamed and swelled with pride, hearing only respect for his magical skills. He took a few more steps, and any watching mime artistes(6) would have applauded the way he was now apparently descending an invisible staircase to true ground level.

"A levitation spell to take me a whole three feet above ground." he explained. "A mass inversion spell to make me light as a feather. But an inertial compensation spell, so that the air recognises I still have substance, to it, so that I am not blown about as if I am a feather. The three spells together combine, to give the illusion of flight."

Nimue grunted, and then realised she had to at least pretend to be impressed.

"I really liked it when you laid down on your front and pretended to be a bird in flight!" she said, trying hard to channel Gerontia Ogg, and trying not to remember the elderly Wizard simulating flight four feet above ground level. It had been like watching an old man swimming in the shallow end. And doggy-paddling, at that.

"But, Mister Wizard. Can't you go any higher than that?"

Merddyn, or was it Marvin, scowled for a second. Then he smiled.

"Alas. Flight into the higher airs is a secret known only to Adepts of the Eighth level." he said, regretfully. "I regret I am only a Wizard of the Fifth Level."

He remembered why he had had to leave Ankh-Morpork in a hurry, having annoyed Wizards of the Sixth, Seventh and Eighth; the Master of The Order of the Hoodwinkers, his own Order, had said there was a vacancy for a Court Wizard in this Gods-awful rustic Kingdom, sounds like a skin disease, better for everyone if you accepted it, coach leaves at three, do NOT let the sun go down on you in this city tonight, if I were you I'd get packing.

"Mass transference is involved." the Wizard said, trying to forget that one reason for his leaving town in a hurry was that he owed Cosimo The Vindictive three thousand dollars and he still had no clear idea as to how he'd pay it back. He'd also tried the fairy gold stunt as a diversion, which had bought him respite until the following morning… long enough to get a head-start. "I believe to ascend, I should persuade an equivalent mass which is currently above me to descend. Some of those loose looking boulders higher up the slope, perhaps…"

Nimue shook her head.

"Got a good spell for stoppin' an avalanche?" she asked, practically.

The Wizard smiled, trying to make it look as if he had taken this into account and was waiting for her to catch up.

"Perhaps, madam, a different sort of Magick?" he asked, sounding the "k".

Nimue tried not to scowl at the un-necessary letter. Thunder sounded in the distance. She nodded assent.

Marvin, or was it Merddyn, brightened up.

"I know. Perhaps fire-spells?"

He smiled, benignly, at her.

"It must be boring for you to have to watch, and not to participate?" he offered. "Fire-spells should be within the more restricted range of Magicks available to women with necessarily limited competence for Magick. If you wish, I could teach you how to do a basic fireball?"

Nimue stood and nodded her acceptance of the idea. She forced herself to show appreciation for his generous offer.

And overhead, more thunder rolled…


The witches had just walked into the royal palace. Gerontia Ogg had smiled benignly at the gate-guards and asked after their health. Nimue had nodded to them. The guard had stood aside, hurriedly.

"Where's Kingy right now, our Orm?" Gerontia asked. The young guard had considered for a second.

"Got his … Knights… in conference, Auntie." He replied. "Tryin' to make that Round Table idea work. You know, twenty people sat round a table that can only seat eight, tops. Problem is, to get a round table big enough to sit twenty, means getting a living room that's four or five times bigger. Else table won't fit. So they has to take turns. And even now, if you put the salt and vinegar and pepper in the middle of the table, you has to really reach to get it."

Gerontia grinned.

"Another of Queenie's bright ideas?" she asked.

"What do you think, Auntie?"

Morgana, the disregarded third, followed them in. They looked around the squared-off and rectangular form of the dilapidated castrum, built according to Latatian logic. Gerontia looked down at the mosaic floor and cackled.

"Allus gives me a laugh." she remarked. "Blind Io turnin' himself into a golden shower an' splashin' all over the maiden's lap. Bet she weren't pleased."

"Gerontia…" Nimue said.

"She give birth to a bonny bouncin' ingot nine months later, by all accounts…"

"This way." Morgana said, urgently. "Can't you smell it?"

Gerontia sniffed the air. Something strong, indefinable, and somehow compelling…

"Wonder what he's up to?" she mused. And she pushed a door open...


"Sublime what, mister?" Gerontia asked, standing on tiptoe to look over the wizard's shoulder. The old Wizard jumped, then turned to scowl at the Witches. When he saw one of them was Nimue, the scowl turned into a rictus smile.

Morgana, disregarded again, tried not to shudder at how icky it was all becoming. As a Witch, she knew she was expected to be able to look directly at horrible and unwholesome things and to deal with them without flinching. Yet there was something that was definitely ick about the ageing Wizard who was obviously pretty much taken with Nimue.

"Ah, dear lady." he said. "You are always welcome in my workshop. But…"

He turned and looked down to regard Gerontia, who was grinning all over her face.

"Well, mister, she's a single woman in a single man's rooms. You can look at Morgana and me as her chaper-o-nees. So as we can say afterwards there was nothin' untoward goin' on. Ain't that right, Nim? Morgana?"

The wizard scowled slightly. Morgana studied him intently.

"You've been putting dye in your hair?" she asked, scrutinising him. "It's a llitlllle bit llighter than it was yesterday. Lless grey."

The wizard reddened slightly. Then, after an inner conflict that showed on his face, he decided to be conciliatory. Morgana could see this was costing him.

"My dear young woman, do I detect the dulcet tones of Llamedos in your voice?" he asked. "Rwy'n dod o'r Llamedos hefyd."

Really? Morgana replied. You don't sound Llamedosian.

-I have been to many strange and mysterious places, many not of this Discworld. I have travelled the Planes. I have seen things of which men wot not. You become more cosmopolitan.

Morgana shrugged.

-Pant-y-Girdl docks on a Saturday night is strange and eldritch enough. Or when the Druids are out for a drink after the fifteen-a-side blows full time. Have you ever seen a drunken Druid trying to fly a menhir?

"What's she sayin', Gerontia? Bloody Llamedosians. I'm sure they only speak that language to annoy us and so they can talk about us behind our fronts."

Gerontia nudged Morgana.

"He ain't putting a hex on us, is he, Morg?"

"No, Gerontia. We're both from the same country."

"Good. 'Cos I got a hex up me sleeve to throw straight back…"

Then she nudged the Wizard.

"So what's all this for, Mr Wizard? 'Cos I bet you don't set all this up just to brew up some hair dye!"

Morgana sighed.

-You know, I remember my old mamgu telling me about a failed Druid called Merddyn. He had to leave Pant-Y-Girdl in a bit of a hurry, which was something to do with the sacrificial Solstice virgin suddenly not being a worthy sacrifice any more. And the Druidical offertory box next to the standing stone was suddenly a lot lighter on the arian, and when the high arch-Druid took a close look, a couple of the sacred golden sickles turned out to have blades made of lead, with gold paint on the top…

-Okay, I developed a late and unexpected vocation for magic and went to Ankh-Morpork… but that was fifty years ago!

Morgana smiled at him, and then at the other witches, who were trying not to look puzzled.

"Llamedos is a small country, Nimue, Gerontia. My granny might have known him. She said it was a shame he had to lleave town to take up a schollarship at the Wizarding College in Ankh-Morpork…"

There was an embarrassed pause.

Gerontia Ogg had been industriously searching around and was poking in amongst all the wizarding paraphernalia, which was exerting a fascination on her.

"'Ere, mister! There's a barrel of beer down here! Smells like… tastes like… best bitter from the Goat and Compasses!"

"Errr… do be careful down there, madam, some of that apparatus is really quite delicate… hard to replace and it could be dangerous to the Great Work if it gets upset or damaged…" the wizard said, glad for the distraction.

"Yes, but what's it for?" Gerontia persisted. "Looks like you're boilin' up good beer at this end, and only a few drops of somethin' clear is comin' out the other." Gerontia persisted. "Waste of good ale, to my way of thinkin'!"

"Ah. That's where you're wrong, madam. Let me explain…"

Nimue nudged Morganna while the explanation happened.

"Seems to me he was desperate to change the subject." she said. "He wouldn't be so keen on tellin' the secret of this wizarding to Gerontia, else. What did you say that made his mouth open and close like a stranded fish?"

Nimue's eyes bored into Morgana's.

"Tell you later, Nimue." she said. Conversation went on in the background as Morgana, under a diamond glare, decided it was possibly best to give in.

-Well, madam. Beer in its way is a minor magic. You brew it? And cider? And you've noted its euphoric effect on the human psyche, as if some component within it acts as an agent that affects the system?

"You'll tell me now, Morgana Garlleg. While Gerontia's distractin' his attention!"

-Oh aye, yes. People gets drunk. They go red, they laugh and cry, they gets happy, they can get angry sometimes, they does stuff they might not have done if they hadn't been drinkin', you drinks too much and you falls over or you throws up, and a bad batch gives you a foul head the next day…

"I'll whisper it in your ear, Nimue.."

-Well, the brewing of ale and cider is a minor magick, well within the capability of women with a limited capacity for magick, such as the typical village witch…

Morgana tried not to notice the way Gerontia Ogg's eyes suddenly narrowed. She wondered why the wizard seemed absolutely blind to the warning signs.

-But we Guardians of the Higher Magicks believe there is some sort of living Essence, some sort of spirituous component, within the baser drinks like beer, and the higher-order beverages such as wine, which can be concentrated and isolated...

"I see. Your old granny in Llamedos knew him, did she? Very int'res'tin."

Gerontia had reverted to a look that said "tell me everything, mr Wizard, but make it simple for this simple village woman", crossed with a slightly open-mouthed flirtatiousness. In its way, this was an art form…

-Crude ale is ninety per cent water, you see. If we remove as much of those none-tenths of water as we can, but gently, do gently, so as not to drive off or destroy the Living Essence..

-Oh, we does that too, in winter, with applejack. Leave the cider out in the cold and keep taking off the ice as it forms. Makes it flat, but stronger.

-Ah, the ill-educated peasant way. Fractional distillation takes out more of the water and leaves more of the essence. Let me show you the operation of the condensation coils here… water stays behind. The spirituous essence, being lighter and more ethereal, comes this way…

"Bit of a crook and a criminal in his youth. Failed Druid. Went Wizard. Gets an education so he can suddenly be all respectable. Comes back. I see, hopin' everybody's forgot.." Nimue said, with a grim little smile.

They watched Gerontia getting a Wizard-level education for a while.

-So you can drink this stuff, Mr Wizard?

-Well, in very small measured glasses, yes. But the spirituous essences of barley and wine have other, higher, uses in Wizardry and have been noted to have a beneficial medicinal effect if externally applied to wounds…

-Got a glass, Mr Wizard?

-Mrs Ogg, I counsel caution…

"Err… Ladies? Her Majesty's just found out you're in the Palace. She is pis… not happy. Can we ask you to come with us? Please?"

The three witches turned to look at the armed guards who had just walked in. They were local Lancre men who didn't seem very happy about the order to arrest the Witches and being them before the Queen for judgement. They shuffled, uneasily. It didn't help that Nimue smiled pleasantly at them.

"Be delighted." she said. "Ain't been invited for a chat with King Uther for a long time. Not since he got wed. We knows the way. You lads can tag on behind, if you like. Coming, girls?"

"Ye Gods, Nim. That stuff's strong!" Gerontia remarked. "an' there I was, thinkin' it was a wicked waste of good ale!"

"Come along, Gerontia." Nimue said, exasperated. "Time we went for a chat with our Queen. Don't know about you two, but I got loads to say to her."

"Please. Ma'am." the sergeant said, pleadingly. "You are under arrest for trespass."

"Sergeant?" the wizard said. "Miss Weatherwax is my guest. And as Mrs Ogg so rightly said, it is good for the look of the thing if she was chaperoned…"

"You'd better come along too, sir. To explain. I'm sure this can be sorted out."

Witches, wizard and escort then proceeded to the presence of the Queen, one of the Witches beginning to hum a song about a hedgehog whilst another hissed at her to pipe it down. The third Witch asked the Sergeant, in the presence of his men, if the ointment she'd made up for the little problem was working?

A temporary marquee had been set up in the courtyard to allow for a makeshift Royal Reception Suite whilst building was going on higher up the castle mount. The Witches looked at the building sitewith interest: it was the first time they'd been able to get this close, what with the Queen's ban on their going anywhere near the Castle. It looked worse from closer to, a disordered wreck of part-built collapsed walls and rubble, with discarded tools and the usual builders' debris of heaped gravel and sand along with sacks of cement. As one witch, they ignored the ornate pavilion tent, bedecked in drapings and the Lancre colours of yellow and black, and walked past it to look into the sad beginnings of the new castle keep.

"Hmmm." Nimue said, thoughtfully. "What do you reckon, Gerontia?"

As they looked thoughtfully into the deep stone-lined pit and surveyed the mounded rubble inside it, there was an angry female noise from somewhere behind them.

"Guards! I thought you had those women under arrest and in custody!"

The imperious words were spoilt by the shrill tones, and by the somewhat rustic accent, which had overtones of somebody whose role in life was to operate a milk-churn or dispense clotted cream and scones.(7) None of the witches moved.

"Sir Lancelot!" the shrill voice cried. "My ' ansum good knight! Bring those women to me! In chains, if you have to!"

The witches turned and acknowledged Lancelot Pegley, a well-built man in his early thirties. It was true he was good-looking, in a rough-hewn and greasy kind of way; but right now he was looking awkward in unfamiliar clothing that was completely new to Lancre. Gerontia grinned.

"Her ansum?" she demanded, grinning broadly.

"Since when have they made you a knight, Lance Pegley?" Nimue demanded. "Plain mister ain't good enough no more?"

"I don't think much of that haircut." Morgana said, assessing him critically.

Lancelot Pegley coloured.

"Now don't be difficult, ma'ams." he said. "Her Majesty wants to see you. And the king made me a Knight. With the sword and everything. Her Majesty said there should be Knights."

"Those tights don't suit you." Morgana went on. "And those shoes with the curled over points."

"And that fancy shirt." Nimue added.

"All the rage in Tintagel, apparently." Pegley said, after an uneasy pause. "And all the knights there do their hair this way."

"Makes you look like a proper p.."

"Gerontia." Nimue said, warningly.

"I was going to call him a pillock. What else did you think I was going to say, begins with a pee?"

Then Nimue smiled. This was more unsettling than a scowl.

"Lead on, Sir Knight." she said. She even offered him her arm.

To be completed in the next chapter…

Yes, I do know the title is half in Danish – couldn't find an online translator for Anglo-Saxon, so Danish will have to stand in, for now.

(1) I really thought I'd invented a new OC (Original Country) when the idea occured to me that Überwald, if it has "Germans" at one end and "Russians" at the other, must therefore have space for a landscape of other "Eastern European" ethnicities... after all, TP himself, before having to Retcon, gave the three Sto States Polish names (really true!) so they that would have, from a British perspective, something "other" about them. Later on, with Borogravia and Zlobenia having a somewhat Austro-Hungarian/Balkan feel to them, "Eastern Europe" moved away from Ankh-Morpork, as you might roughly expect. So. Given Germany and Russia having what is delicately referred to as a History of lively interaction, I wondered about the country whose fate it is to be sandwiched in between. A bit of skewed thinking about Polish rivers and the fact that in English "Vistula" sounds like a medical condition... the River Fistula was born. And the Fistulan people living on both banks, who find both Fritz and Ivan to be hard work. And then I looked at the Compleat Discworld Atlas. And what do I find there in Far Überwald. The mighty and majestic River Fistula. Canonically, the Discworld's "Poland". Reality and fan fic blur.

(2) She actually had a back door. Other residents in the area noted this and said "That's posh, innit? Two doors?" Nimue used it as a convenient way of getting around the beehives, the goatshed and the herb garden. It made more sense than going out the front and walking round the back. People seeking her services understood this and now routinely went to knock on the back door. A well-worn path had been trodden in the grass, in fact. Her front door was hardly ever used these days.

(3) From Thomas The Rhymer, the old Scottish poem about an earthly bard abducted by the Queen of the Elves. Now touch metal.

(4) But not the poetically mandated fifty-nine per lock, the reality-dictated quite a few less.

(5) The book of spells he'd found the recipe in had the title Ye Cosmetick Grimoire of ye Mage Vydal Sassoon. This particular potion, for external use only, was a spell to Restore Ye Original Pigmentation Of Ye Pellicular Growth and was called Ephebian MM.

(6) There still weren't many. Latatian law had permitted clowns to form trade guilds and teach their skills. They were jolly useful for keeping the proles and the plebs entertained in between bouts in the arena, whilst slaves did the necessary cleaning-up of corpses, bodily parts, and blood-encrusted sand. However, successive Latatian Emperors had decreed that any Clown stepping across the line into mime artistry also had his place in the Arena and could entertain the groundlings. Usually while frantically miming "Help! I am being torn to pieces by lions!"

(7) sorry, readers from Devon and Cornwall. Looking up useful dialect English from Cornwall (Kernawac) – location of the Arthurian Tintagel – to slip in where I can… "ansum" apparently means "good-looking man" (handsome)

Notes Dump

Where the magic(k)al fallout from any misunderstandings between a Wizard and a Witch is safely contained.

Oh Gods – got to use some of this stuff in future fics… off to look up this show on youTube…

Purno de Purno, another series from VPRO (see the Live-Action TV folder). With characters such as the "Kietelaar" (a Dutch word for clitoris), politically incorrect gags about sex, homosexuality and bodily functions, political commentary and very suggestive imagery. Most likely Dutch TV shows back then were very good and Moral Guardians feared that they would get flamed if they attacked those shows so they flamed anime instead. Incidentally, Hans Peter Wessels, the person who created Purno de Purno, would create another Subverted Kids Show in 2002 called Ffukkie Slim.

Part three of "The Price of flight – Olga's horrible realisation that they'll have to recruit flight-Wizards. Early days yet, but the idea of aircrew who are not Witches and not actually capable of flying the things has been conceded. They have Feegle, after all, to navigate. But with the Service expanding and the new flying elephants needing a larger crew, together with other organisational challenges, requires new thinking. There is also the issue of the new Air Base for the Heavy Squadron, for instance.

Original story:

On the FB site, a page of a mediaeval manuscript showing two dragons locked in battle was repurposed with the legend

For just five shillings a month

You can provide dragons like these

With the food and shelter and medical attention they need

Act now! (Source credits as previously)

The idea was to present it as a flyer for the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons. Recognising the source, I wrote a quick paragraph:

Ah, the Llamedosian Red and the Chalk White playing out their age-old enmity. This bloody Wizard turned up and said it was a metaphor for something or other, two peoples locked in age old enmity, but as he chundered on about it for so long, a local Witch called Nimue Jenkins locked him in a soundproof crystal box in a vain attempt to shut him up - local myth says he's still there, explaining poetic metaphor and its place in history, to this day...

Since then I've been having Ideas to repurpose this as a longer story. As you do.

I'm not sure if the longer story will fit here – so in the spirit of recent musings on elephants with wings, the "original" is going here together with credit for the inspiration, and the expanded and reworked story will fit in elsewhere.

MEMORANDUM

From: J.H.C. Goatberger (Proprietor)

To: Mr Thos. Cropper (Overseer)

MEMORANDUM

From: Mr Thos. Cropper (Overseer)

To: J.H.C. Goatberger (Proprietor)