First Light

I was getting ready to leave at what I consider an early hour of the morning, although even at five o'clock there are a few intrepid souls already at work. Making my way into the Place du Saint-Sernin I found myself drawn by the haunting beauty of a girl singing where the walls of the Place produce an acoustic almost like a concert-hall. The words, “O quam mirabilis est” — “Oh what a miracle this is!”

She sang like a lark, apparently just enjoying the quiet morning air, and I loitered just inside the square to listen, waiting until her song wwas finished before crossing to greet her. I suppose I should not have been surprised to learn that she was the oldest daughter of Herr Grüneberg; that her family had lived in Bad Sobernheim for five generations becoming one of the wealthiest farming families. In the hope of learning more I invited Traudi and her father to share breakfast with me in the tavern and over the meal, I learned more about the hazards of den Weg des heiligen Jakobus.
The first hazard as you climb into the Pyrenean mountains, so Sigismund tells me, is the packs of wolves in the high forests which prey on lone pilgrims, and it was because of these that the hôpital at Roncesvalles was established. And it wasn't so long ago, that the souls of pilgrims were at risk from the pernicious teachings of the Cathar heretics who sought refuge in the mountains.
On the east of Lorca is the bitter river the local people call the Salado. There are wicked men who wait beside the river for unsuspecting pilgrims and encourage them to water their horses there. When the horses fall dead, these rogues skin them before their carcases have even cooled!
Once you pass over the mountains into Spain, do not eat their beef, pork, shad, eel or tench for they will almost certainly make you sick. (Spanish tummy? I wondered that such a thing has been known for such a long time) The Porma and the Sil are good rivers of sweet water, flowing through verdant and pleasant lands. A few miles from Santiago our party halted and we bathed in the waters of the Miño, a river surely blessed by God, stripping off even our underclothes.
Sigismund was so keen to tell me of the adventures they had been through, and the things they had learned along the road that our meal was done before ever I had a chance to ask Traudi about the song she was singing earlier. Before the poor girl had a chance to utter a word Sigismund told me with a note of pride in his voice that she had learned the song as a pupil, one of the few females admitted to the school run by the Benedictines at Disibodenberg.

References

                    

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Those boots were made for walking

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,¹
and bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth²
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye³
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,—
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,—
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;⁴
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Checklist

1. April has quenched the drought of March
2. Gentle breezes have replaced the howling gales of the equinox
3. The Dawn Chorus has resumed rehearsals
4. Wanderlust takes hold once more

As you might guess from the checklist, my first, very ambitious thought was to make the pilgrimage, at least part of the way, for myself, to Santiago de Compostela. But the suggestion was vetoed very firmly citing the risk of exposure as a reason. Any physical risks I might take are part and parcel of the lives of the people around me, but the danger of being exposed as someone with ‘supernatural’ connections for the duration of quite a long pilgrimage would place my life in danger unjustifiably. I may not be able to make the pilgrimage immediately, but I intend to find some way to overcome any potential obstacles in due course somehow.
For the folks who live in the era, I can hardly blame them for wanting to go on vacation once the weather starts to improve: three months of cold, damp, and preserved food has certainly done it for me in the past. In my case though, I am looking further afield than Caunterbury; I figured if I can establish myself at Toulouse, long-since established as a popular rendezvous for pilgrim groups crossing Europe, there should be some good pickings for a seller of pilgrim memorabilia. Yes, even in the 13th century, there is a flourishing trade in souvenirs. And if you're rich enough, and have the right connections, you might even be able to buy one of St.James’ actual fingerbones (current estimates suggest that he had between thirty-five and forty fingers on each hand!)
As a first stage, before heading towards Toulouse I made the acquaintance of some of the craftsmen of L'Isle Jourdain, where I obtained a workable stock of rosary beads, small carved wooden figurines and some carved bone icons. Thus prepared I made my way to the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne in Toulouse to set up my stall. Describing my adventure in such bald terms belies the competitive nature of the vendors already there, and I was obliged to display my stock at the furthest edges of the market.
Identifying the pilgrims returning is simplified in many cases by the scallop shells which they wear fastened to their hats or breasts, although in a few cases, they are equally identifiable by the evidence of miracles which they proudly display to anyone who shows the slightest curiosity: I obtained the following song from an older man who was keen to show me his well-worn crutch, explaining that for many years he had been lame as the result of an accident, but now, not only could he walk, but as he eagerly demonstrated, he could dance once more!

Herr Grüneberg, as he identifies himself to me, knows many of these pilgrim songs which have even been set down in written form by King Alfonso X, ‘The Wise’ of Spain.
                   

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Eternal Triangle

Before I came to the town of Arona in northwest Italy, I had no idea what it was like, or why it might be of interest. And I had never heard of the brothers de Lantins, so bumping into them, almost literally, outside a lively tavern on a May evening was a very happy accident.

I had managed to secure a temporary job as pot-girl during the festivities and was carrying a large jug of wine out to some thirsty patrons when a boisterous circle-dance broke up, scattering revellers in all directions, two of them being the aforementioned brothers, identical twins, differentiated only by their dress; one wearing a more sombre traveller's outfit, the other in a rich-looking tunic with the livery of some great house embroidered on the breast. They were good enough to apologize hastily for jogging my arm, and one of the pair asked if they might buy a couple of measures of cool wine after their exertions in the dance?
When I returned a few minutes later to find them seated and waiting they were already engaged in discussion:
"Can you not see how the pattern of the tune might be overlaid perhaps two or three times, at different intervals?"
"I can see that it might be possible, but surely, it would be cacophanous! What patron would want such music?"
"In Paris, already, this new art is being practised in the service of the divine, and surely what is good enough for God in France, will soon be good enough for the noble houses of Italy?"
"You will not convince me, Hugo, no matter how you try. Did you not learn from the holy brothers that 'God is not the author of confusion'?"
"No, no! You do not understand. Let me demonstrate..."
Drawing back a little on the bench, Hugo dips his finger in the red wine and starts drawing lines:
"A hop and a skip, I shall write it in imperfect time, perfect prolation, like so..."
He draws a broken circle, the symbol of imperfection, indicating two main phrases, with a small complete circle inside it, meaning that there will be three main beats in each phrase, then a sequence of squares indicating the notes.
"Now, after ... five steps, let us say with the beginning of the second three, another voice begins..."
Watching with fascination, I see how he repeats the same pattern of notes, at a lower pitch, harmonizing as the beginning of the second voice joins with the middle of the first! And suddenly, I am brought back to earth by a sound slap to my behind.
"Giovanna! this patient family is waiting for honey cakes. NOW!"
Perhaps it was the bang on the behind, but by the time I get home, I can barely remember the melody that Hugo wrote down. And as nearly as I can tell, it was the traditional carol "I saw three ships come sailing in". Considering the lyrics, I find myself wondering if this is another of the riddle songs that were once so popular:

Why three ships, for two people? and what does the song mean by "Our Savior Christ and His Lady"? Normally we use the term so-and-so and his lady to indicate a girlfriend or wife. Most people would probably have no trouble in identifying the virgin Mary as Christ's lady, but what about the Bride of Christ? His church? And why are they sailing to landlocked Bethlehem? riddle-me riddle-me ree!
It occurs to me too, that it might be more than coincidence that I met the twins in a town governed by the Borromea family, whose arms are three interlinked rings. Twos and threes every which way!

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Love is ... the oldest, yet the latest thing

To paraphrase Lewis Carroll's "Alice", all this jumping back and forth in time makes one quite giddy! I used to think it was bad enough when I woke up in the morning and couldn't remember where I was. Now I have to think "when am I?"
And as if that wasn't enough, I almost didn't get to go with the excursion I had requested. Madame director wanted me to go to France at the beginning of the seventeenth century, while I wanted to follow the link back from John of Salisbury.
In the end I managed to convince her of the value of the trail I was following, and since the technicalities make it impossible to travel to the same place and time more than once, my request was reluctantly granted. And so it is that I find myself in the company of some of the most extraordinary minds ever to gather in a single place:
Here, in 1139, at the Abbey of St.Gildas-de-Rhuys in Brittany, Father Abbot Pierre Abelard takes time from his monastic duties to engage students from some of the furthest reaches of the known world in philosophical and religious debates.
I am surprised (but perhaps, unfairly so) that among the young men who attend so eagerly and listen so attentively to his discourses, are several dark faces with features suggestive of Arab, or Indian heritage. I would have thought that differences in religious belief might have deterred these fellows from aspiring to learn from someone who is now known as much for his sermons as for his rhetoric and knowledge of classics.
Of course, Pierre Abelard was not always a friar. As a young man, quite apart from his promise as a scholar, he had opportunity to indulge his appetites at the various hostelries that catered to the students of Notre Dame university in Paris, but it seems physical pleasures were generally less enticing than intellectual ones. Until, that is, he got to know Heloise, a most unusual young woman taking full advantage of her uncle's guardianship to study alongside the menfolk.
The unhappy outcome of their relationship was that Heloise was compelled to enter holy orders, while Abelard was castrated by her uncle! But not before Heloise had conceived a child.
Despite their forced separation, it seems their love for one another never died.
In tribute to one of the great love stories of all time (for more information, I recommend the tale of Abelard and Heloise), I would like to reproduce in modern notation, the chant of Abbess Hildegard von Bingen, received recently at this abbey with other correspondence.

The full text of Pierre Abelard's own account of their story, Historia Calamitatum is available as an online e-text.

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With the tongues of Men and of Angels

"For he who sings praise, does not only praise, but also praises joyfully; he who sings praise, not only sings, but also loves Him whom he is singing about/to/for. There is a praise-filled public proclamation in the praise of someone who is confessing/acknowledging (God), in the song of the lover (there is) love."

(St. Augustine, Commentary on Psalm 73, 1)

Whenever I see John of Salisbury, Bishop of Chartres, I can't help thinking of the Bishop from the Lewis chessmen. A stocky saxon nobleman, with a permanently fixed distracted expression as if he's always in conversation with someone hiding under his mitre, but lively, ice-blue eyes, a firm handshake, and those extraordinary brightly-colored clerical robes.
The reason I sought out the Bishop was to learn more from him about the practice of singing organum which is rapidly gaining popularity in the church community. Since the earliest days of the established church, song has been an integral part of worship, but until recently the singing was limited to the style which eventually became known as Gregorian chant, although there is no solid connection between the tradition of an unaccompanied choir singing a melody in unison. In the year we are visiting, 1179, opinions are still divided over the question of whether chant should be in blessed unison or heavenly harmony.
In conversation with one of the Deans of the Université de Notre Dame here in Paris, the Bishop expressed his opinion which seems to favor continuing progress with careful moderation:

"When you hear the soft harmonies of the various singers, some taking high and others low parts, some singing in advance, some following in the rear, others with pauses and interludes, you would think yourself listening to a concert of sirens rather than men, and wonder at the powers of voices … whatever is most tuneful among birds, could not equal. Such is the facility of running up and down the scale; so wonderful the shortening or multiplying of notes, the repetition of the phrases, or their emphatic utterance: the treble and shrill notes are so mingled with tenor and bass, that the ears lost their power of judging. When this goes to excess it is more fitted to excite lust than devotion; but if it is kept in the limits of moderation, it drives away care from the soul and the solicitudes of life, confers joy and peace and exultation in God, and transports the soul to the society of angels..."

I was also surprised and delighted when I learned that in his youth, the Bishop was a student here himself, under the tutelage of Pierre Abelard, famed forever in the story of Abelard and Heloise!
For the students here in Paris, this is an age of wonders. A time when the glory of God seems almost tangible, the Kingdom of God is certainly at hand, and anything might be possible. And even hiding behind the persona of one of the Bishop's retinue, I can feel the tide of excitement surging as young men engage in lively debates in the taverns nearest to the schools of the Université, and learned doctors speculate on ways in which the majesty of the Creator is revealed in His creation.
Undoubtedly the most exciting evening of my own visit here is attendance at an evening service in the cathedral at which the Bishop will officiate; the music the choir is singing is an organum triplum composed by Magister Perotin.

Perhaps it is because they are used to helping students to answer queries, that when I approach the Bishop with my question about the beginnings of organum singing, not only does he answer me from his own experience, but he also tows me along through the huddle of worshippers to ask Magister Perotin himself!
Between the two of them I manage to understand that as early as the ninth century, choirs had begun to embellish the music on special occasions by dividing into two groups, one group singing tenor, the plain melody, and the other singing the same melody at a fourth, or fifth above, or below. And although there is a new development being tried experimentally by some choirs, the organum contrarium, in which the tenor is inverted by the vox organalis, the Bishop is not as enthusiastic for it as he is for Perotin's organum duplum and triplum.
Magister Perotin asks me whether I can read (have you ever tried reading a medieval manuscript? in latin, too); the library of the Université contains copies of the treatises Ad Organum Faciendum, (To Make Organum) and Musica Enchiriadis. As much as I would love to stay and study the manuscripts, I worry that my ineptitude as a reader might provoke too many questions about my background, and not for the first time, I find myself confounded. While the technology of my native time has made it possible for me to explore history, it has not provided me with any better recording media than my own brains.
I should mention that I didn't learn until almost I was ready to return to my own time, that Magister Perotin is well into his eighties, but I would have guessed his age to be roughly contemporary with the Bishop. Like Moses, his eye was not dimmed, nor his natural force abated!

In Memoriam: Midnight_In_Gethsemane 1953-2008

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Szmytke of Flickr, for permission to use the image of the Lewis chessmen, and the M.A.B. soloists and M.Moriwaki for their transcription of Perotin's organum, shown above.

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Lord of the Dance (4/4)

Mishto hom mi dikava tute! (Good to see you made it here!). I'm sure you're wondering why I just took off and jumped all the way to eastern Europe. One of the German chivalric orders has been supervising a programme of (rather militaristic) colonization in this area, so here in Schäßburg,
Romania, seemed like a good place to start looking for the missing children.
The date today is Friday July 7th, 1284. With the extraordinary powers of persuasion which two gold ducats endowed me I bought us both temporary fellowship in a kumpania (Romany family), including sleeping quarters in one of their vardos. The accommodation is actually pretty respectable if you compare it with most common folks in this period. And I have to credit the Rom; their personal hygiene is a good deal better than most common folks. Of course, since we aren't Rom ourselves we get referred to as "paash raat", their term for a gaje who has adopted the nomadic lifestyle.

I should also explain that I abandoned my male persona shortly after arriving here. These wily gypsies saw right through my disguise and actually suggested a couple of improvements I hadn't thought of, but I'm quite happy for them to refer to me as miri kushti b'o-r (my dear (non-Rom) lady). I'm afraid as far as the family is concerned I haven't been much use for more than the most basic tasks; grooming the horses (they have three, two of them fine draft horses apparently), and fetching water and firewood. The wife of Chief Lovar has offered to teach me some fortune-telling skills but nothing has come of it so far.
However, the family has been very helpful in establishing a rapport with Laszlo Kriwaczek, one of the shepherds, and it is from Laszlo that I gleaned the most important information.

If you come with me up the hill I will show you the place that Laszlo pointed out to me where he saw, with his own eyes, as he told me, "a great river of alien children emerge from the cave. Some of them crying, and all of them weary." He has also told me how some of the families of the town took the younger ones in and lodged them with their own children. Most of the older children have been taken in as servants; the region is still recovering from raids by Mongol invaders about forty years ago, and there is plenty of work for young healthy bodies.
Without any prompting he gave me some important details: none of the children were more than eleven or twelve years old by appearance, and their language was strange to his ears.
Sadly, as a gypsy my welcome is tempered by a suspicious caution and I haven't been able to make a close approach to any of the local families, but I have heard small groups of children talking in German!
So let me close this account of my investigation with a stamping dance which Dinu Dalakis (his "local" name) taught me, playing his bosh.

References

Romany / English Dictionary
Excerpts from the original Finding Romanistan programme

  

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Lord of the Dance (4/4)

Mishto hom mi dikava tute! (Good to see you made it here!). I'm sure you're wondering why I just took off and jumped all the way to eastern Europe. One of the German chivalric orders has been supervising a programme of (rather militaristic) colonization in this area, so here in Schäßburg,
Romania, seemed like a good place to start looking for the missing children.
The date today is Friday July 7th, 1284. With the extraordinary powers of persuasion which two gold ducats endowed me I bought us both temporary fellowship in a kumpania (Romany family), including sleeping quarters in one of their vardos. The accommodation is actually pretty respectable if you compare it with most common folks in this period. And I have to credit the Rom; their personal hygiene is a good deal better than most common folks. Of course, since we aren't Rom ourselves we get referred to as "paash raat", their term for a gaje who has adopted the nomadic lifestyle.

I should also explain that I abandoned my male persona shortly after arriving here. These wily gypsies saw right through my disguise and actually suggested a couple of improvements I hadn't thought of, but I'm quite happy for them to refer to me as miri kushti b'o-r (my dear (non-Rom) lady). I'm afraid as far as the family is concerned I haven't been much use for more than the most basic tasks; grooming the horses (they have three, two of them fine draft horses apparently), and fetching water and firewood. The wife of Chief Lovar has offered to teach me some fortune-telling skills but nothing has come of it so far.
However, the family has been very helpful in establishing a rapport with Laszlo Kriwaczek, one of the shepherds, and it is from Laszlo that I gleaned the most important information.

If you come with me up the hill I will show you the place that Laszlo pointed out to me where he saw, with his own eyes, as he told me, "a great river of alien children emerge from the cave. Some of them crying, and all of them weary." He has also told me how some of the families of the town took the younger ones in and lodged them with their own children. Most of the older children have been taken in as servants; the region is still recovering from raids by Mongol invaders about forty years ago, and there is plenty of work for young healthy bodies.
Without any prompting he gave me some important details: none of the children were more than eleven or twelve years old by appearance, and their language was strange to his ears.
Sadly, as a gypsy my welcome is tempered by a suspicious caution and I haven't been able to make a close approach to any of the local families, but I have heard small groups of children talking in German!
So let me close this account of my investigation with a stamping dance which Dinu Dalakis (his "local" name) taught me, playing his bosh:

Click on the music to visit the site and get a complete copy

References

Romany / English Dictionary
Excerpts from the original Finding Romanistan programme

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Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

Lord of the Dance (3/4)

s friars, even mendicant friars, we are expected to attend mass once in a while, and since today is Monday the 26th of June it would look fishy if we failed to attend the festival mass of Saints John and Paul. The town is busier than usual for a Monday with people from many of the surrounding villages who have come to town for the festival mass, and presumably at least some of them are hoping for special blessings on this festival of two saints.

It's not hard to get caught up in the crowd squeezing into the Minster of St.Boniface and once inside I am surprised yet again by the absence of something I had expected: the smell of a large mass of unwashed medieval humanity in a confined space is much less noticeable (or my nostrils have become desensitized during our stay here) than the sweet scent of bunches of herbs hung from the walls and stacked in the corners of the windows. At about the point that the priest is making the absolution I plan to slip outside, and I encourage you to do the same. If anybody asks where we're going, say it's a call of nature. On a feast like today's the mass can take quite a bit of time if the clergy are keen to include all the various options in the service which might give the piper more time than he needs to do his dirty work. My hope is that we can catch him in the act (but remember, look, but do nothing that might change the course of events!). We don't have long to wait in the shadows of the Minster before I hear the sound of that shawm once more. The streets are not deserted, but very much quieter than earlier, with the few traders who have chosen not to attend mass vying for the closest positions to the entrance to the Minster. Making our way towards the town walls, aiming to get closer to the sound of the shawm a couple of young girls come running out of one of the smaller houses. The older girl is clearly trying to get her younger sister to listen to her cries to come back, but within minutes, both seem more curious about the sound of the shawm which is definitely playing more musically this time. The air is a dance tune with a lively beat, and I find the jigging rhythm almost hypnotic.

Getting to the town gate, it is clear that we are following the last of the stragglers. Ahead of us, on the westward road heading up towards the hills is a sizeable crowd of dancing children and keeping up is quite an exercise in itself. By the time they reach the stand of yew trees on the lower slopes I have lost sight of them completely and when I manage to struggle up there myself, the grove is completely quiet.

The story we are trying to follow speaks of them entering a cave and it doesn't take long to find the trail of trodden-down bushes and broken branches. By the time the undergrowth gives way to the rocky ground there is a cleft in the rocks a few meters to the right, small enough for less well-nourished bodies to squeeze through. But my calls and whistles go unanswered. The eeriest thing though, to me, is the silence up here. No birds, not even crows cawing in the trees. And nothing grows under the yew trees. The ground is just littered with leaf mold and little red berries. Perhaps the best plan would be to return to the town and make a respectable exit. If we just disappear I am worried that we might become part of the legend, however unlikely it is that anybody would ordinarily notice the departure of two mendicants. Particularly, I am worried that if we should disappear without some kind of explanation, somebody will make a link between us, and the missing children. And Mother Church has a long reputation of accepting oblatus novices without examining their past too closely.

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The Lord of the Dance (2/4)

I hope you slept better than I did. It took me hours to get to sleep because of flea bites and I woke a couple of times in the night (apart from Matins ), convinced that there were rats nipping at my fingers and toes although I don't think I've heard any skittering feet since last night's frische Luft performance.
oday, God be praised! is Friday, the 23rd of June, in the year of our Lord, 1284 and if the tales are correct ('scuse the pun), the ratcatcher will be attempting to collect his payment from the burghers of the town, a gros for every rat according to his account. Since the rathaus is a busy commercial focal point, we have an ideal excuse to find a convenient perch beside the entrance where we can sing psalms, perhaps preach a couple of improvised sermons, and ask alms while watching for the ratcatcher.
By sext, I have all but given up hope of seeing anything notable. And my piety has given way to my mischievous nature, which is why when you came back from getting some lunch I was wearing my most pious face and singing quietly "In Taberna Quando Sumus" from the Carmina Burana. The latin sounds pious enough to most common folk, but the words are fun!

In taberna quando sumus non curamus quid sit humus, sed ad ludum properamus, cui semper insudamus. Quid agatur in taberna ubi nummus est pincerna, hoc est opus ut queratur, si quid loquar, audiatur. Quidam ludunt, quidam bibunt, quidam indiscrete vivunt. Sed in ludo qui morantur, ex his quidam denudantur quidam ibi vestiuntur, quidam saccis induuntur. Ibi nullus timet mortem sed pro Baccho mittunt sortem: Primo pro nummata vini, ex hac bibunt libertini; semel bibunt pro captivis, post hec bibunt ter pro vivis, quater pro Christianis cunctis quinquies pro fidelibus defunctis, sexies pro sororibus vanis, septies pro militibus silvanis. Octies pro fratribus perversis, nonies pro monachis dispersis, decies pro navigantibus undecies pro discordaniibus, duodecies pro penitentibus, tredecies pro iter agentibus. Tam pro papa quam pro rege bibunt omnes sine lege. Bibit hera, bibit herus, bibit miles, bibit clerus, bibit ille, bibit illa, bibit servis cum ancilla, bibit velox, bibit piger, bibit albus, bibit niger, bibit constans, bibit vagus, bibit rudis, bibit magnus. Bibit pauper et egrotus, bibit exul et ignotus, bibit puer, bibit canus, bibit presul et decanus, bibit soror, bibit frater, bibit anus, bibit mater, bibit ista, bibit ille, bibunt centum, bibunt mille. Parum sexcente nummate durant, cum immoderate bibunt omnes sine meta. Quamvis bibant mente leta, sic nos rodunt omnes gentes Qui nos rodunt confundantur et sic erimus egentes. et cum iustis non scribantur.

When we are in the tavern, we do not care that we will go to dust, but we hurry to gamble, which always makes us sweat. What happens in the tavern, where money is host, you may well ask, and hear what I say. Some gamble, some drink, some behave loosely. But of those who gamble, some are stripped bare, some win their clothes here, some are dressed in sacks. Here no-one fears death, but they throw the dice in the name of Bacchus. First of all it is to the wine-merchant the the libertines drink, one for the prisoners, three for the living, four for all Christians, five for the faithful dead, six for the loose sisters, seven for the footpads in the wood, Eight for the errant brethren, nine for the dispersed monks, ten for the seamen, eleven for the squabblers, twelve for the penitent, thirteen for the wayfarers. To the Pope as to the king they all drink without restraint. The mistress drinks, the master drinks, the soldier drinks, the priest drinks, the man drinks, the woman drinks, the servant drinks with the maid, the swift man drinks, the lazy man drinks, the white man drinks, the black man drinks, the settled man drinks, the wanderer drinks, the stupid man drinks, the wise man drinks, The poor man drinks, the sick man drinks, the exile drinks, and the stranger, the boy drinks, the old man drinks, the bishop drinks, and the deacon, the sister drinks, the brother drinks, the old lady drinks, the mother drinks, this man drinks, that man drinks, a hundred drink, a thousand drink. Six hundred pennies would hardly suffice, if everyone drinks immoderately and immeasurably. However much they cheerfully drink we are the ones whom everyone scolds, and thus we are destitute. May those who slander us be cursed and may their names not be written in the book of the righteous.

The traffic to and from the building has consisted entirely of scruffy town folk and the occasional richly dressed burgher until a fellow comes out of the building with a deep scowl and shouts up at the windows;
"Wenn Sie nicht zahlen mich in Gelt, ich will etwas viel kostbare von Ihnen" before storming off. ("If you will not pay me in gold, I will take something more precious from you!")
His tatty clothing and the beery smell aren't at all what I was expecting, but he seems like the most likely candidate for the fellow we are looking for. I think we should both hurry along and see if we can't get a good look at him. Perhaps if we offer him a holy blessing he will pause long enough that we can get a good look at him?

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The Lord of the Dance (2/4)

I hope you slept better than I did. It took me hours to get to sleep because of flea bites and I woke a couple of times in the night (apart from Matins ), convinced that there were rats nipping at my fingers and toes although I don't think I've heard any skittering feet since last night's frische Luft performance.
oday, God be praised! is Friday, the 23rd of June, in the year of our Lord, 1284 and if the tales are correct ('scuse the pun), the ratcatcher will be attempting to collect his payment from the burghers of the town, a gros for every rat according to his account. Since the rathaus is a busy commercial focal point, we have an ideal excuse to find a convenient perch beside the entrance where we can sing psalms, perhaps preach a couple of improvised sermons, and ask alms while watching for the ratcatcher.
By sext, I have all but given up hope of seeing anything notable. And my piety has given way to my mischievous nature, which is why when you came back from getting some lunch I was wearing my most pious face and singing quietly "In Taberna Quando Sumus" from the Carmina Burana. The latin sounds pious enough to most common folk, but the words are fun!

In taberna quando sumus non curamus quid sit humus, sed ad ludum properamus, cui semper insudamus. Quid agatur in taberna ubi nummus est pincerna, hoc est opus ut queratur, si quid loquar, audiatur. Quidam ludunt, quidam bibunt, quidam indiscrete vivunt. Sed in ludo qui morantur, ex his quidam denudantur quidam ibi vestiuntur, quidam saccis induuntur. Ibi nullus timet mortem sed pro Baccho mittunt sortem: Primo pro nummata vini, ex hac bibunt libertini; semel bibunt pro captivis, post hec bibunt ter pro vivis, quater pro Christianis cunctis quinquies pro fidelibus defunctis, sexies pro sororibus vanis, septies pro militibus silvanis. Octies pro fratribus perversis, nonies pro monachis dispersis, decies pro navigantibus undecies pro discordaniibus, duodecies pro penitentibus, tredecies pro iter agentibus. Tam pro papa quam pro rege bibunt omnes sine lege. Bibit hera, bibit herus, bibit miles, bibit clerus, bibit ille, bibit illa, bibit servis cum ancilla, bibit velox, bibit piger, bibit albus, bibit niger, bibit constans, bibit vagus, bibit rudis, bibit magnus. Bibit pauper et egrotus, bibit exul et ignotus, bibit puer, bibit canus, bibit presul et decanus, bibit soror, bibit frater, bibit anus, bibit mater, bibit ista, bibit ille, bibunt centum, bibunt mille. Parum sexcente nummate durant, cum immoderate bibunt omnes sine meta. Quamvis bibant mente leta, sic nos rodunt omnes gentes Qui nos rodunt confundantur et sic erimus egentes. et cum iustis non scribantur.

When we are in the tavern, we do not care that we will go to dust, but we hurry to gamble, which always makes us sweat. What happens in the tavern, where money is host, you may well ask, and hear what I say. Some gamble, some drink, some behave loosely. But of those who gamble, some are stripped bare, some win their clothes here, some are dressed in sacks. Here no-one fears death, but they throw the dice in the name of Bacchus. First of all it is to the wine-merchant the the libertines drink, one for the prisoners, three for the living, four for all Christians, five for the faithful dead, six for the loose sisters, seven for the footpads in the wood, Eight for the errant brethren, nine for the dispersed monks, ten for the seamen, eleven for the squabblers, twelve for the penitent, thirteen for the wayfarers. To the Pope as to the king they all drink without restraint. The mistress drinks, the master drinks, the soldier drinks, the priest drinks, the man drinks, the woman drinks, the servant drinks with the maid, the swift man drinks, the lazy man drinks, the white man drinks, the black man drinks, the settled man drinks, the wanderer drinks, the stupid man drinks, the wise man drinks, The poor man drinks, the sick man drinks, the exile drinks, and the stranger, the boy drinks, the old man drinks, the bishop drinks, and the deacon, the sister drinks, the brother drinks, the old lady drinks, the mother drinks, this man drinks, that man drinks, a hundred drink, a thousand drink. Six hundred pennies would hardly suffice, if everyone drinks immoderately and immeasurably. However much they cheerfully drink we are the ones whom everyone scolds, and thus we are destitute. May those who slander us be cursed and may their names not be written in the book of the righteous.

The traffic to and from the building has consisted entirely of scruffy town folk and the occasional richly dressed burgher until a fellow comes out of the building with a deep scowl and shouts up at the windows;
"Wenn Sie nicht zahlen mich in Gelt, ich will etwas viel kostbare von Ihnen" before storming off. ("If you will not pay me in gold, I will take something more precious from you!")
His tatty clothing and the beery smell aren't at all what I was expecting, but he seems like the most likely candidate for the fellow we are looking for. I think we should both hurry along and see if we can't get a good look at him. Perhaps if we offer him a holy blessing he will pause long enough that we can get a good look at him?

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