Once More Unto the Leech!

In Pfeildorff, Prince Rupprecht has spent the morning inspecting the new plague hospital established by Herr Hans Klenser, his chief medical officer. 'Inspecting', though, is probably too active a term for Rupprecht's efforts, which could more accurately described by terms such as 'loafing', 'laughing', and 'snoring'. Left to his own devices, there is very little that the prince has an interest actively in inspecting, unless those things are on top of a plate or under a corset. Rupprecht's advisors, however, have convinced him to at least make the effort in order to give his subjects the impression that he cares about them, even if that care seems to be expressed in an utterly indifferent way. The plague has hit the town hard. In addition to the large numbers of citizens that have expired, the interruption of commercial activity has caused great financial hardship. Many of the poorest have been reduced to eating their own shoes. Sadly, they don’t always remember to remove their feet first.

 

(Above) The prince addresses Herr Klenser. 'Klenser, I have spent the morning at your new hospital'.

'Indeed, my lord - and I hope that my progress has pleased you?'

Rupprecht frowns. 'Klenser, conditions at your plague hospital are positively medieval!'

'Medieval?' asks the physician.

'Yes - medieval: you have some explaining to do, chief medical officer!'

'Well I ... I ... have done my best, sire!' replies Klenser.

Rupprecht gesticulates. 'That's my point! You need to explain how things have improved so much! I mean, the hospital doesn't just have leeches, it has a full range of advanced medieval methods - toads, ducking stools - and the trepanning! Splendid drilling! You've brought the practice of medicine in the palatinate roaring into the fourteenth century!'

'You do me too much honor, my lord'.

'No, no, Klenser', says the prince waving his hand at at the doctor, 'never let it be said that I fail to recognise hard work in the service of the state'.

There is an almost audible rolling of the eyes from Rupprecht's grand chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, who gives a short cough that might also be mistaken for the words 'Me! What about me!'

Rupprecht freezes at the sound. 'Are you unwell, Fecklenburg? You aren't ... infected ... are you?'

'No! No, sire!' says the chamberlain hurriedly, eyeing with some alarm Klenser's attempts to unsheath a meat cleaver. 'I just choked on a ... leech, or something'.

Klenser nods. 'An excellent preventive step, my good chamberlain. Indeed, on that note, my lord, I have been considering the possibility perhaps of instituting a lockdown to control the spread of the plague'.

'Excellent, I love a good drink'.

No, sire - a lockdown: we pass edicts instructing the population to stay in their homes'.

'Excellent - I see too much of them as it is. We should definitely do it'.

'Of course, sire', says Klenser, 'you yourself must set an example'.

'It's a terrible idea', says Rupprecht. 'We should definitely not do it. Anyway, things seem to be progressing perfectly well. Reported incidences of the plague have collapsed!'

'Well, sir, there's nothing like the possibility of a really enthusiatic trepanning to sort out the time-wasters. The numbers of patients in my hospital has reduced significantly'.

'And the the corpses littering the streets around the hospital?'

'My lord, it is a scientific fact that the poor are quite lazy. The state cannot be held responsible if its citizens would rather catch a lethal plague and lie down and die rather than go out and do an honest day's toil'.

'You are a wise man, Klenser - I find your views refreshingly forward-looking'.

'Well, that's that', says Rupprecht, as Klenser wthdraws and Fecklenburg comes forward to converse with the prince. 'Can I go now, Fecklenburg? I've had about all the caring for my subjects that I can take in one morning'.

'Of course, sire. There are, in any case, other issues that we need to discuss'.

Rupprecht flops back into his chair. 'You're surely joking, chamberlain. How many poor people must I smell before I am released from the day's administrative chores?'

'Well, my lord, there are the issues relating to ...', he looks around, and lowers his voice ' ... our business in Schrote'.

'I thought that you said that your Jesuit friend was all over things. When will he contact the bishop?'

'Well, my lord, says Fecklenburg, checking his pocket watch. 'I should say, sir, any time around ... now'. 

Schrotal Cogitation!

'No! No! No! No! No! This is is completely unacceptable! I must retaliate!'

'Indeed, sire', says Leopold von Fecklenburg, Grand Chamberlain to Prince Rupprecht of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, 'your lunch was indeed unreasonably small. But I think we should instead focus our efforts on the report from the Zentan ambassador, Ritter von Dweeb'.

Prince Rupprecht has been forced to leave Schloss Tanvaund and return to his capital, Pfeildorff. He is to tour a state of the art plague hospital set up in the town by his chief medical officer, Herr Hans Klenser.

'Dweeb is still alive then?' asks Rupprecht.

The chamberlain nods. 'It would seem so, my lord. You have to admire that back and breast plate of his. But the intelligence that he has sent us is incendiary! It would seem from this Zentan letter that there is a Fenwickian and Zentan plot to force our nobility to have you replaced, on pain of a renewal of the war against us!'

'Replaced?' Rupprecht seems to consider this. 'Would that mean that I could stay in bed for longer?'
'No my lord, because you wouldn't have a bed - they'd take that. And your throne as well'.

Rupprecht reflects on this. 'And my shoes - would they take those?'

'Almost certainly, sir'.

'What about my cufflinks?'

'My lord, I think that we need to focus on the bigger picture here'.
'But, generally Fecklenburg, you're saying that I wouldn't have to do as much work?'
'But they'd take everything, sire! They'd oppress your people ...'
'A bit of light oppression would do most of them some good ...'
'And strip you of your pigs!' 
The prince chokes. 'What! What! Insupportable! This means war! Mobilise the troops! Strip the peasants of their cash! We cannot accept this threat to our royal dignity!'
The chamberlain gestures placatingly. 'It is winter, my lord, and so no war is immediately likely. The threat, I think, will emerge as spring arrives and the campaigning season starts. And anyway, too precipitous a war against Fenwick would be dangerous without allies. We need time to prepare. We need time to develop our stratagems'.

Rupprecht scowls, looking under his throne and then checking his pockets. 'And where will we find these cunning stratagems, Fecklenburg?'

There is a long silence. It is clear that, wherever these clever ideas are to be found, it is unlikely to be anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the prince. Then, Fecklenburg snaps his fingers.

'I've had a thought, my lord! George of Fenwick is to be crowned King of Gelderland in the cathedral in the Bishopric of Schrote!'

Rupprecht nods. 'Didn't I used to be the bishop of Schrote?' he asks sadly.
'Indeed, sir', says Fecklenburg, 'until you were so cruelly stripped of the position in the wake of the latest war'.
'Yes', says Rupprecht sadly. 'I loved that hat'.

'It was so very tall and red', agrees the chamberlain.
Rupprecht sighs. 'Yes, and as a bishop, I was allowed to do all of those naughty things'.
The chamberlain chews his lip. 'I don't think, strictly, that you were allowed to do them, sire: I just think that, as a bishop, you got away with them. Anyway, my lord, a counter-plan is forming in my mind! There might be something that we could do whilst George is in Schrote for the coronation - he would be practically on our borders, and be protected by only a limited bodyguard. We'd need the cooperation, I suspect, of the new bishop of Schrote. We'd have to blackmail or bribe him - probably both, given that he's a bishop'.
Rupprecht nods. 'Have we got anything on him that we can use for blackmail?'
'He's a catholic bishop, sire - it's just a matter of digging hard enough. Hmmm, it just so happens that I play bridge with a Jesuit inquisitor. Let me see what I can rustle up ...'

With These Chocolates You Are Really Foiling Us!

The trumpeters are at it again. There is a blare of horns, and then both cry out 'Tremble and despair, mortals! Behold, Hospodar Casimir: the Shadow of God, God's Umbrella and Also Possibly His Hat!'

There is a pause. A head pokes itself hesitantly around the door. It is the Bachscuttel ambassador, Ritter von Dweeb. 

'Ah, ambassador - I suspect that you are wondering why we have summoned you here' says Radu Pasha. Two days have passed, and Ritter von Dweeb has finally been induced to appear and present his credentials.

Dweeb steps into the harem and looks around nervously, a sheen of sweat on his face. 'I did wonder why. Because I haven't managed to fill in the paperwork correctly yet to apply formally for a meeting. My .. ah ...my dog ate the forms'.

'Your dog must be getting quite full of such forms by now', says Radu.

Dweeb nods distractedly, glancing furtively around. He seems to relax slightly when he realises that there are, as yet, no immediate signs of any such instruments of torture as hot coals, branding tools, pliers, or English food.

Radu pasha gestures to one of the eunuchs who appears with a tray covered in a pyramid of golden objects. 'The ambassador has provided us with some sweetmeats, my lord. They look all golden. I'm sure that they are delicious'.

'Do try them, my lord', says Dweeb. 'They have been made especially'.

Hospodar Casimir nods. 'Well, you know, I think that I shall'.

There is a moment of silence. Casimir looks at Radu and raises an eyebrow.

'Oh yes, of course, of course, Dread Lord', says Radu hurriedly, 'I should try one first'.

Radu looks speculatively at one of the golden chocolates, and then pops it into his mouth. Before Dweeb can say anything he chews vigorously.

'Aaaak! Aaaaak!' he squawks. 'Eees 'ocolates are orrigle! Aaaak! Aaaak!'

Casimir nods. 'Horrible? Slave Radu, by their look I think that the gold is some kind of foil wrapping. You need to remove it first'.

'Oh. Oh, 'es', says Radu exploring the contents of his mouth with his tongue. 'I 'eed oo sit it at'.

'Well, go on and spit it out then', says Casimir.

Radu looks around. He briefly contemplates the pool but rejects it. He then starts to panic - he isn't sure that there isn't an explicit rule about gobbing half-masticated sweetmeats onto the floor of the harem,* but he is willing to bet that the Hospodar would probably find one if he did.

He looks at Dweeb and gestures. 'Or 'at - I eed or 'at.'

'You need, what? Oh, you need my ... hat?'

''Ive it 'ere'.

Dweeb looks on horrified as Radu takes his hat, deposits the chocolate into it and then hands it back.

The ambassador bows, thanking Radu politely, before contemplating the effect on his very expensive headwear. He sadly tucks it back under his arm, judging that it would be politically inexpedient to punch the Zentan vizier in the face, shove his staff right up his nose, and kick him mightily in his dangley tassels.

Casimir meanwhile is already tucking into the sweetmeats.

'Not bad, not bad' he says. 'With these chocolates you are moderately spoiling us'.

Casimir catches Radu's eye. Radu coughs and then gestures to Dweeb. 'Ah, er, ambassador. Before the Dread Lord Casimir deigns to engage you directly in conversation, you must just wait over there for a minute, out of ear-shot. The hospodar and I must discuss a recently arrived and very secret letter that contains secret and recently arrived ... things'.

Dweeb bows and wanders away (above). As he contemplates the harem's decor, the vizier talks to the hospodar in loud pantomime tones, Radu clearly enunciating such words as 'conspiracy', 'Fenwick', 'absolute secret','must not fall into anyone else's hands ever', and 'ever, ever, ever, ever, ever'.

'You may return, ambassador' says Radu finally, gesturing.

As Radu turns, a letter falls from Radu's grasp and floats downwards, ending up just by Dweeb's foot (above). Dweeb freezes, and then glances around. No one appears to be looking ... He weighs up the chances of getting caught purloining the document against the chance of an intelligence coup that might get him promoted out this ambassadorial role. This mainly involves weighing up the chances of immediate torture versus the much larger number of chances of more torture spread over a longer period of time. Furtively he drops his hat over the document and then, as he bends down to pick up his hat, he also scoops up the letter, which in the process becomes quite chocolatey...

xXx

The audience finishes. As soon as Dweeb has left, Radu bows to the hospodar.

'Well, my lord - he took it'.

'Yes, he did, slave. Let us see what happens when our "secret information" is revealed in Bachscuttel!' Casimir pauses. 'The Bachscuttel leader ... you're certain that he can read?'

Radu nods. 'Oh yes'. He considers this further. 'At least, I'm certain that somebody there can'.

*In Fenwick, of course, there are strict rules against the use of the word 'masticated', half or otherwise. 

Zenta Letter Too!

Casimir purses his lips. 'Well, let's have it then, slave Radu. What do they want? We're up to date with our tribute, and if they don't like the devshirme levies that we send for the household troops, then I want to know what else I'm supposed to do with all of those ginger-haired left-handers we find wandering about'.
Radu Pasha fishes a scroll from his robes. 'Dread Lord, it would seem that another campaign against Persia is in the offing. Since peace now reigns in Mittelheim, the Sublime Porte thinks that there is no reason why you can't spare your troops for the fight. The Grand Vizier has ordered that you prepare in spring to mobilise your army and lead it to the muster of imperial troops in Istanbul, in preparation for a march to the Persian border.
Casimir groans. 'Spring break in Isfahan. Lovely. Is everyone else going?'
'I understand, Aweful One, that messages as we speak are landing on the palace doorsteps across the Balkans'.
'Persia', says Casimir, angrily. 'Persia', he says again, as if trying the word on for size. 'Persia, Persia, Persia'.
Radu nods sympathetically. 'I remember, Lord, that you have been there'.

The Hospodar nods wearily. 'I have. It's too hot in the summer, and it's too cold in the winter. Spring is too much like autumn; and autumn is too much like sitting on an ice block while hostile locals pelt you with scorpions. It's as unpleasant as England, but with more aubergines. But really, the main problem with Persia is that it is full of angry, angry Persians. No, I don't think that we really want to go to Persia'. Casimir subsides into resentful silence. 

There is some splashing and then some raucous giggling from the pool.

'Stop that!' shouts Radu to the miscreants, 'the under sevens are in there tomorrow'. He then waits as the the hospodar cracks his knuckles.
'Lately', says Casimir slowly, 'being hospodar has been really rather trying. And now, Istanbul is making things even worse. It's even affecting my appetite. Am I losing weight?'
'Surely not lord!' replies Radu, feigning a shocked tone. Actually, Casimir has looked a little leaner of late. However, Radu isn't fool enough to say so. The hospodar is sensitive about his weight - or rather, any indication that he lacks it. The hospodar is keenly aware that losing weight would be a dangerous sign of weakness, signalling either either that he could't afford enough food or that he cared what other people thought. In Zenta, it is wise for the ruler to maintain recognisably hospodar levels of corpulence.

'But, Dread Lord, the Sublime Porte's logic sadly is irrefutable. With the situation now so peaceful in the lands of infidel Mittelheim, there is really no reason why we need to keep our army here'.
Casimir gives this some thought. 'Too peaceful to require our army here?' says the hospodar, fiddling idely with one of the tassels on his turban. 'Well, let's see what we can do about that then, shall we?  I have an idea. Where's that Bachscuttel ambassador? Get a scribe here as well - it would appear that we have received another letter! We just need to get the contents right!'