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mylodonThis morning, lying abed basking in the wonders of our Olympians' achievements yesterday and looking forward to more today (please God) I remembered a story I wrote for a challenge yonks ago. Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fandom, so it must be prehistoric! The names reflect the inspiration.
RATING: Gen
SUMMARY: Inspired by Dr Strabismus (whom God preserve) of Utrecht and his invention, Bracerot.
DISCLAIMER:Jonathan Strange is not mine, nor do I profit from him, but he’s fun to play with. And yes, the braces are ananchronistic by about a dozen years. I don't care.
“Mr Strange. Your presence is required.”
Jonathan Strange stood up; no more was needed to be said regarding where and with whom his attendance was essential. “I shall come immediately.” No doubt there was some new magic required, the creation of decent roads or the need to move towns being superseded by some other requisite that would hasten victory in Portugal.
“Mr Strange,” Wellesley produced an approximation of a smile at seeing the man, but his stern expression proved that things were indeed grim. “The French have found a magician.”
“I understood that they already had one or two who have been working for Bonaparte.”
“Indeed – but this is much more serious. They appear to have found a magician who can actually do magic.”
Strange’s eyebrows rose; this really was a significant development.
“Mr Pendleton,” Wellesley indicated a rather nervous looking young man, “tell this gentleman what you told me.”
“It’s the lowest form of combat, sir; absolutely devilish. The French – the swines - have been creating spells that make our braces snap.”
Jonathan began to smile, but soon changed his expression when he saw how very solemn the others present were. This was no laughing matter.
“Can you imagine, a company of His Majesty’s finest marching along the road and suddenly all their braces break and…” Pendleton finished in whispered tones.
“Speak up man!” Wellesley was fuming at this French skulduggery and he would not suffer fools getting in the way of dealing with it.
“Sorry, sir. It makes their trousers fall down, Mr Strange – the flower of British manhood, with their breeches around their ankles. It brings us up short; we can’t proceed. Can you think how the men will cope, carrying their gear with one hand fixed at their waistbands? Johnny foreigner on every side of them, laughing and jeering?” Pendleton was becoming agitated – one of the aides-de-camp had to try to both calm and silence him with a cup of water.
Wellesley nodded vigorously. “This is the sort of dirty trick we have to cope with, Mr Strange; but I have every confidence in your ability to deal with it.”
Jonathan recognised that he had been dismissed and set off back to his quarters with Pendleton in tow, ostensibly to brief the magician further. As the man prattled on, mainly concerning the embarrassment that the soldiers felt at such an assault on their dignity, Strange’s mind whirred.
He had come across a similar thing once before; Wiggin's threnody of emasculation.* There was no direct counter to it, so he must seek to render it ineffective by other means.
“Would reinforcing our men’s braces with iron be acceptable, do you think?” He suddenly suggested.
Pendleton thought for a moment then shook his head sadly. “It might work against the spell, but the men would find it almost as uncomfortable. The constriction on the chest, for example…” the man began to blether again and Jonathan began to think once more.
Suggestion after suggestion was mentioned and rejected on practical grounds – elasticated or drawstring waistbands would be too effeminate, string or some other means of fastening would be undignified, belts would simply not be British.
Something Pendleton said in his blethering suddenly penetrated Strange’s consciousness. “Please could you repeat that. Sir?”
“I said that we should be giving the frogs a taste of their own medicine.”
Jonathan smiled. Mr Pendeleton, there are some things I require – please can I make you a list?”
***
“Monsieur Skrela. Your presence is required.”
Jean-Luc Skrela stood up; no more was needed to be said regarding where and with whom his attendance was essential. “I shall come immediately.” No doubt there was some new magic required, the dissolution of British braces proving only a temporary advantage.
“Skrela,” Bonaparte looked as if heads would imminently roll. “The English magician is up to his tricks again.” He turned to the man at his side, pierced him with a dagger gaze. “Casteignede; tell him.”
“Our soldiers in Portugal were making great strides towards victory; your spell was some help in this…”
Thank you for being so effusive, Skrela thought, but did not dare speak aloud.
“…but now we are in dire straits. This new devilry – a spell sir, which turns our britches into…” Casteignede paled, could hardly say the dread words, “… into kilts. Kilts, Monsieur, such as the heathen northerners wear. Our men refuse to proceed; they sit down in the road with their legs demurely under them.”
Skrela looked quizzically at the by now squirming Casteignede. “And why is this, sir? If the Scots can march in them, why not our men?”
Bonaparte looked thunder at his magician; it appeared as if the man’s star was very soon going to be in the descendant. “Do you not know how they wear the plaid, Monsieur? How can any decent Frenchman bear to be party to such animal behaviour? Now, what do you propose to do about this?”
***
Wellesley smiled benignantly upon Strange – the man had come up trumps again. “Do you hear what they are saying, sir? The world is full of rumours that the French army are being turned into women. And ugly women with unattractive ankles at that.”
Jonathan smiled. Porterfield’s enchantment of the tartan was a useful little thing to have up your sleeve. Or down your trousers.
*This was an ancient spell, said to date back to the time of Alexander the Great when the camp followers would ululate the words in anticipation of reducing the virility of the opposing army. Wiggins had adapted it for use in the War of the Roses where its intention was to make the joints of the opponents’ armour immovable.
RATING: Gen
SUMMARY: Inspired by Dr Strabismus (whom God preserve) of Utrecht and his invention, Bracerot.
DISCLAIMER:Jonathan Strange is not mine, nor do I profit from him, but he’s fun to play with. And yes, the braces are ananchronistic by about a dozen years. I don't care.
“Mr Strange. Your presence is required.”
Jonathan Strange stood up; no more was needed to be said regarding where and with whom his attendance was essential. “I shall come immediately.” No doubt there was some new magic required, the creation of decent roads or the need to move towns being superseded by some other requisite that would hasten victory in Portugal.
“Mr Strange,” Wellesley produced an approximation of a smile at seeing the man, but his stern expression proved that things were indeed grim. “The French have found a magician.”
“I understood that they already had one or two who have been working for Bonaparte.”
“Indeed – but this is much more serious. They appear to have found a magician who can actually do magic.”
Strange’s eyebrows rose; this really was a significant development.
“Mr Pendleton,” Wellesley indicated a rather nervous looking young man, “tell this gentleman what you told me.”
“It’s the lowest form of combat, sir; absolutely devilish. The French – the swines - have been creating spells that make our braces snap.”
Jonathan began to smile, but soon changed his expression when he saw how very solemn the others present were. This was no laughing matter.
“Can you imagine, a company of His Majesty’s finest marching along the road and suddenly all their braces break and…” Pendleton finished in whispered tones.
“Speak up man!” Wellesley was fuming at this French skulduggery and he would not suffer fools getting in the way of dealing with it.
“Sorry, sir. It makes their trousers fall down, Mr Strange – the flower of British manhood, with their breeches around their ankles. It brings us up short; we can’t proceed. Can you think how the men will cope, carrying their gear with one hand fixed at their waistbands? Johnny foreigner on every side of them, laughing and jeering?” Pendleton was becoming agitated – one of the aides-de-camp had to try to both calm and silence him with a cup of water.
Wellesley nodded vigorously. “This is the sort of dirty trick we have to cope with, Mr Strange; but I have every confidence in your ability to deal with it.”
Jonathan recognised that he had been dismissed and set off back to his quarters with Pendleton in tow, ostensibly to brief the magician further. As the man prattled on, mainly concerning the embarrassment that the soldiers felt at such an assault on their dignity, Strange’s mind whirred.
He had come across a similar thing once before; Wiggin's threnody of emasculation.* There was no direct counter to it, so he must seek to render it ineffective by other means.
“Would reinforcing our men’s braces with iron be acceptable, do you think?” He suddenly suggested.
Pendleton thought for a moment then shook his head sadly. “It might work against the spell, but the men would find it almost as uncomfortable. The constriction on the chest, for example…” the man began to blether again and Jonathan began to think once more.
Suggestion after suggestion was mentioned and rejected on practical grounds – elasticated or drawstring waistbands would be too effeminate, string or some other means of fastening would be undignified, belts would simply not be British.
Something Pendleton said in his blethering suddenly penetrated Strange’s consciousness. “Please could you repeat that. Sir?”
“I said that we should be giving the frogs a taste of their own medicine.”
Jonathan smiled. Mr Pendeleton, there are some things I require – please can I make you a list?”
***
“Monsieur Skrela. Your presence is required.”
Jean-Luc Skrela stood up; no more was needed to be said regarding where and with whom his attendance was essential. “I shall come immediately.” No doubt there was some new magic required, the dissolution of British braces proving only a temporary advantage.
“Skrela,” Bonaparte looked as if heads would imminently roll. “The English magician is up to his tricks again.” He turned to the man at his side, pierced him with a dagger gaze. “Casteignede; tell him.”
“Our soldiers in Portugal were making great strides towards victory; your spell was some help in this…”
Thank you for being so effusive, Skrela thought, but did not dare speak aloud.
“…but now we are in dire straits. This new devilry – a spell sir, which turns our britches into…” Casteignede paled, could hardly say the dread words, “… into kilts. Kilts, Monsieur, such as the heathen northerners wear. Our men refuse to proceed; they sit down in the road with their legs demurely under them.”
Skrela looked quizzically at the by now squirming Casteignede. “And why is this, sir? If the Scots can march in them, why not our men?”
Bonaparte looked thunder at his magician; it appeared as if the man’s star was very soon going to be in the descendant. “Do you not know how they wear the plaid, Monsieur? How can any decent Frenchman bear to be party to such animal behaviour? Now, what do you propose to do about this?”
***
Wellesley smiled benignantly upon Strange – the man had come up trumps again. “Do you hear what they are saying, sir? The world is full of rumours that the French army are being turned into women. And ugly women with unattractive ankles at that.”
Jonathan smiled. Porterfield’s enchantment of the tartan was a useful little thing to have up your sleeve. Or down your trousers.
*This was an ancient spell, said to date back to the time of Alexander the Great when the camp followers would ululate the words in anticipation of reducing the virility of the opposing army. Wiggins had adapted it for use in the War of the Roses where its intention was to make the joints of the opponents’ armour immovable.
