It's The Feudal
Life For Me
by Marvin Pinkis
||A hovel in Merrie
||Will, a varlet,
possibly a churl
Tammy, the varlet's (churl's) mother
"Mommy, mommy, Garreth and Clive called me a
Will, you are not a churl. You are a varlet and
you full well know it."
still be a varlet when I grow up?"
shmarlet. You will be a varlet to the master like
your older brothers, father, uncles and cousins.
An honorable trade. Fresh air, occasional meals
of gruel and porridge with questionable
ingredients, a straw pallet to sleep on, vermin-infested,
yes, but just the same a bed. No worries about
responsibilities. Now, I want you to leave. I am
making mead for your father and you know how mad
he gets when he doesn't get his mead."
don't desire another brutal cuffing. Clive says
he wants to be a serf when he turns seven."
plague continues and people keep dropping like
flies, the compulsory age for entering the
carefree life of serfdom will be lower than seven."
so. I can hardly wait. If I'm five now, I think,
how long will it be?"
what you have fingers for."
the other day when I was playing with my toad,
the lord of the manor's son, rode by and he
stopped and we talked. He invited me up to the
I may not have to endure a feudal life if we were
nine older brothers and cousins about that. They
became friends and they're still leading the
no way out of this humdrum existence?"
You want excitement, you young whelp, go poach a
deer in the King's preserve. Invent a way to eat
without greasy hands leaving marks all over my
rough-hewn table. Experiment with herbs and blood-letting.
Join a pilgrimage or, better yet, go on a crusade
and slaughter non-believing innocents in the name
of Christianity. Learn to joust. Devise new
sophisticated methods of torture. With these
options, how can you say humdrum? That kind of
thinking is medieval. You don't know how lucky
you are. Your grandparents never made it to
thirty. Just be grateful for this life of
unparalleled convenience and comfort, even if it