moments. Tonight at the inn at Calais we shall talk more of what is and what shall be expected of you, my child.”
The carriage took Marisia and Father Lawrence along the broad highway on to the port from which they would take the vessel bringing them to London, where Dick Whittington heard the bells telling him he would one day be Lord Mayor.
When they alighted from the carriage, the hostelboy from the inn where they were to put up for the night informed them that the good ship Bonaventura on which they were to have passage would probably not set sail until the next evening at high tide, since there had been reports of strong gales all along the Channel. Hence, sailing at dawn, as they originally intended, would be impossible.
“Very well,” said Father Lawrence cheerfully. “Man proposes, but God always disposes. Tell your master that my ward and I will therefore enjoy his hospitality until the ship is ready to set sail.”
Upon entering the inn, the landlord welcomed Father Lawrence with many a “Vocre Reverence” and Father Lawrence graciously thanked him in his native tongue. Discovering that this tall, ascetic-looking Englishman who wore the cloth of the Faith spoke excellent French, the landlord waxed more and more genial, promising to outdo himself with the supper sent up to Father Lawrence and his lovely ward. He had his own daughter, a comely baggage named Georgette, take Father Lawrence's valise and escort him to the best room on the second floor of their little establishment. I did not see her, to be sure, but I say that she was a comely baggage because these were exactly the words Father Lawrence used to whisper in her ear when she had deposited the valise, his ward and himself in their chamber. To this term of admiration he added, “Georgette, you are quite fetching, and this is still my vacation from my spiritual duties. If you have no suitor or fiance, I should relish the opportunity to walk with you in the moonlight here tonight and tell you how charming I find you.”
At this the landlord's daughter giggled and whispered back, “Oh, mon Dieu, you make me shiver all over, Votre Grace!”
“But you give me too grandiose a title, Georgette. What you have just called me is suitable for a duke or count or marquis. I am but a humble man of the Church, and I am bound for London on the morrow.”
“Still and all,” the sly jade riposted, “Your Eminence looks to me to be a man who knows his way about with a poor, helpless girl like myself. Your Eminence is so different from the kind of men who frequent my father's inn and are always trying to pinch my bottom.”
“And now you endow me with the title one gives a Cardinal of the Church,” he chuckled. Then he did something which made her squeal, for Georgette instantly gasped, “You are the very devil himself! You have pinched my bottom in a way that no man ever has before. I will certainly go walking with you in the moonlight – or anywhere else you choose.”
“Where shall I find you?” he murmured.
“In the winecellar at midnight,” Georgette whispered back. “But now I must go, because Papa needs me in the kitchen to prepare your supper.”
“Till midnight, then, my beautiful Georgette.” I heard Father Lawrence clap his hands and begin to hum a bawdy ditty which he had learned in the village of Languecuisse. It had to do with the fickleness of womankind, and the words went something like this:
In the fields of Languecuisse, tra-la-la,
I go hunting for Bernice, tra-la-la.
For my cock demands surcease, tra-la-la,
From the cunny of Bernice, tra-la-la.
She is blonde, with plump thighs, tra-la-la,
Which are just the ideal size, tra-la-la,
And her cunnylips are soft and pink, tra-la-la,
And she fucks me like a mink, tra-la-la.
Now, alas, I've found Bernice, tra-la-la,
Getting herself another piece, tra-la-la,
Between her thighs my friend Tom lies, tra-la-la,
Stealing from me her pussy's paradise, tra-la-la.
But I bethink myself of Jane, tra-la-la,
Tom's little wife who walks the lane, tra-la-la.
So I strolling with her go, tra-la-la,
To a trysting-place I know, tra-la-la.
Soon her creamy flesh is bare, tra-la-la,
And I see her cunt's thick black hair, tra-la-la,
Now my prick has found surcease, tra-la-la,
And I do not miss Bernice, tra-la-la.
I could foretell that Marisia's virginity would be safe this night at the inn at Calais. Father Lawrence intended to say farewell to La Belle France by way of fucking his landlord's daughter.
The supper was rich indeed, judging from the priest's loud praises and Marisia's enthusiastic avowals. There was a bottle of the finest Burgundy, which he doled out to her in only a few sips, saying to her, “You see, my daughter, when one is a novice, one must progress slowly in all things. Just so with good food and wine, one must not overdo at the outset till one knows one's capabilities. And that is true also in fucking, my dear child. You must but let me be your Father Confessor as well as your guardian in all matters of the flesh, and you cannot possibly go astray. And now it is time for you to go to sleep, my dear child, for perhaps on the morrow we may take a stroll about Calais until there are signs that our ship will sail. Go put on your nightshift and we will kneel down and say our prayers together.”
A few moments later, Marisia having doubtless complied with her guardian's order, the two of them knelt side by side at the broad bed, a facet which Father Lawrence commented on as proof of the landlord's exquisite hospitality to his patrons. He made her say a prayer for her redemption and for her eternal happiness, and then one in gratitude for the spiritual home to which she was being taken. And finally one for his clear-headed wisdom in deciding always what would be the best course of action for her. Having done this, he murmured, “Now hurry into bed and pull the sheets up over you, my daughter, for the sight of your charming backside and the downy shadow of your pussyhairs through this thin shift almost makes me forget that I am your Father Confessor. I bid you goodnight, Marisia.”
Still wearing his cassock, and with me inside his pocket, he went downstairs to imbibe with the landlord a glass or two of that fiery apple brandy known as Calvados. The spirits loosened his tongue and made him still more jovial – doubtless in zestful anticipation of Georgette's appetizing charms later that night, when her father would be snoring away in his own bed – and he entertained his host with several ribald tales from the Decameron. It was evident that the good landlord, despite being French to the core, had heard none of these lewd tales, for he found each of them uproariously witty, and he clapped Father Lawrence on the back and wished the ecclesiastic might remain with him for more than one day and night.
“Why, so do I, my good friend. But now I must take my constitutional, and walk about under the stars and commune with nature before I sleep. I wish you a good night and pleasant dreams,” Father Lawrence explained. He took his constitutional indeed, and once again I found myself rudely jiggled up and down, back and forth, within the confines of my metal prison. The irony of it was that each time I moved this way or that, the tickling strands of Laurette's pussyhairs followed me and reminded me only too well that my unwitting jailer who was on his way to an encounter with a different shade of pussyhairs, shrouding no doubt quite as appetizing a pair of pussylips as Laurette's.
Georgette was waiting for him in the winecellar, and with a cry of joy she flung her arms about his neck and pressed herself tightly against him. His hands moved over her body, for I felt his cassock tighten and again launch me into interminable journeyings within that short metal scope which was now my home.
