Archive for July 11, 2010

“Hey oop, our John,” t’earl o’ Warwick sez. “Av theee subjugated t’north yet?”

“Lancastrian barmpots keep takin t’castles! Ahm reeight mithered!” John sez. “Thee could cum ‘n doa wee eur ‘an!”

John wor reeight jiggered. ‘E’d bin busy subjugatin t’north for months ‘n ‘e wor missin ‘is wife ‘n bairns summat terrible. Warwick felt soz for ‘im, bur ‘e wor alsoa reeight chuffed o’ ‘is younga beeam.

“Orl reeight,” ‘e sez, “Ahl cum wi theur an’ ‘elp.”

T’twoa Neville brothers, chuffed ‘n warli’, rode thru t’Yorkshire countryside, bowin regally ta orl whoa cem fra thea ‘ouses to greet ’em as thee passed. Warwick wondered wheear ‘is owd lova meight be ‘iding; if shi wor thinkin o’ ‘im as ‘e thowt o’ ‘a. ‘E closed ‘is een ‘n picutred ‘a as shi wor when ‘e’d last seen ‘a, ‘a fieree red ‘air catching int’ gleam o’ t’torchlight, ‘a een, darkly smouldering, full o’ t’memories o’ love. Ahl fin’ thee agin, ‘e thowt. Ther’s nowt a’ can gi’o’a t’force ‘n powa o’ wee love.

Bur shi wasn’t i’ enny o’ t’castles, so Warwick reduced ’em ta rubble ‘n went back ta London.

“Thars done well, wee beeam,” ‘e sez ta John. “Naw orl thee as ta doa is win t’battle o’ ‘Exham ‘n thee can av eur rest.”

T’battle o’ Exham, John thowt reeight wearily. Ah ‘ate war bur ah suppose ahl just av to doa it! Ah meight even fin’ ‘a’ dingy who’s bin makin ee a’ uz wife ‘n execute ‘im. It’ll mek uz feel bad bur ah guess ah won’t ave eur choice.

Now John wor eur fine sahdia despi’ t’fact a ‘e ‘ated war, ‘ated killin, so ‘e made sure e’ wor sharp abaht it ‘n i’ neya tahm ‘e’d won t’battle o’ ‘Exham. ‘E ‘ad umpteen o’ prisoners waitin ta av thea ‘eads chopped off ‘n ‘e needed to mek sur t’Duke o’ Somerset wor among ’em. ‘E walked up ‘n daahn t’line o’ defeyted Lancastrians thinkin ‘a’ thee wor nobbut pathetic scum when ‘e saw ‘im  – t’bloke ‘a’ wor i’ love wi’ ‘is beautiful wife Isobel. ‘E grabbed ‘im by t’throa’ ‘n threw ‘im teur t’ground’.

“Ah lern thee ta lust afta uz wife!” ‘he sez.

“Pardon?” t’Duke o’ Somerset sez, so John kicked ‘im int’knackers.

“I know something about your brother,” t’Duke said, groanin.

“Thee norrz nowt!”

“My father told me, before he was… murdered!”

“Thy fatheur wor eur coward ‘n clegged it away fra eur feight!” John sneered. “‘E wor killed ‘idin i’ eur pub!”

“What?” the Duke of Somerset frowned.

John ‘auled ‘im ta ‘is feet ‘n dragged ‘im ta eur nearby bap. “Od ‘im daahn,” ‘e sez ta twoa nearby sahdiers.

“No please, please!” Somerset begged piteously. “I can tell you a secret! You won’t know it if you kill me. Please spare my life!”

“What’s ‘e on abaar? Ah can’t understan’ eur wut ‘e sayin,” sez John, but t’sahdiers shrugged.

Someone grabbed an axe ‘n raised it aboon t’Duke’s neck.

“The father of the queen’s son is…. Urk!”

T’axe cem daahn ‘n Somerset stopped callin mid sentence.

“Wha’ wor ‘e calling abaht?” t’executioner sez.

“Ah av neya ideeur,” John sez. “Bloody barmpot!”

That’s t’north subjugated, ‘e thowt, reeight chuffed wi’ ‘imsel. Naw ah can nip on ‘ooam

Translation help supplied by whoohoo!