Humorous Quest

His armour rattled and clanked as his horse made a slow progress through the pass. Sir Oswald knew that he should have used the tallow to grease the hinges and joins but he had forgotten to rifle through his page's belongings after the ambush. Geoffrey had been an honourable, if somewhat simple, man but he has known his job inside out and his duty, by God. Oswald would never forget the loyalty of such a faithful servant who had laid down his life for his master. It was only right, of course, that he should do so but such actions must be sung to the rest of the ignoble rabble back at camp to remind of them of the loyalty expected of them.

He had been travelling now for days, alone, expecting another attack. The bandits must have sent out a search party for their dead comrades but, as yet, Oswald had travelled without further molestation. A blessing for which he would give dutiful thanks at the chapel of Mont Clair when he made it back to the camp, even thought the priest was a French dog.

The mission may have had it's ups and downs but it had been ultimately successful. The Earl of Dismoore would be impressed enough to grant him lands, riches, even the hand of his beautiful daughter, Aethelfled. It filled him with joy and anticipation to be bringing home such a holy relic. He grabbed the handle of the leather bag in which the saintly artefact was securely wrapped. It felt strangely soft but Geoffrey must have wrapped it well, and Oswald had made such a risk grasping it from wreckage of their cart before more vandals came from the hills that he felt a glow of pride at his valour. He would enjoy unwrapping it slowly from the bag and telling the tale of his fingers grasping the holy handle from amongst their baggage strewn across the road as the assassins swung at him with their swords.

A midst the awed silence of the clustered knights back at camp he carefully opened the bag, basking in the expected glory that was to be his, until the flap flew back to expose Geoffrey's spotty pyjamas and teddy that he always kept in his overnight bag.


Time well up.

Damn you website which generates ideas for writers! Make it easier next time, you bastards.