Saint George: Medieval Monster Minder

By John William Powell

King Freddie the Umpteenth of England and his prime minister, Merlin the Whirlin, are convinced that Patron Saint Cuthbert is no longer up to the job. As fast as Cuthbert’s splendid band of knights in shining armour chase the fire-breathing monsters out of the kingdom, they fly back in again. So when George, an impoverished knight living in a dilapidated castle in Gloucestershire, finds a means of pacifying the incendiary megafauna, the king and premier welcome the opportunity to appoint a new patron saint and minister for the environment at the austerity salary of three shillings and six pence a week. Assisted by his ex-sailor manservant, Jack, George sets about a national monster pacification programme involving Welsh dragons, Irish whatsits, Loch Ness nellies, Breton Bongloppers and even the dreaded Hungarian woggalog. Then follows a variety of adventures involving George and Jack with King Pierre of France, King Duncan of Scotland, Admiral Sir Salty Biscuit, First Sea Lord, Max Grabber, head of HM revenue and customs, Peter Paye, one of his tax officials, Handsome Harold, mayor of Monmouth, and many other colourful characters. Their journeying extends far beyond England, to France, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, Siberia, West Africa and on crusade to Palestine. George succeeds to the extent that King Freddie and Prime Minister Merlin even consider increasing his salary. Follow George and Jack through 21 humorous adventures, each tailored to provide a bite-sized good read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528978736

John William Powell

John William Powell, born in Bristol in 1937, has a PhD in engineering and an honorary DSc from the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Kumasi. He was awarded the OBE in 1991 for Services to Technical Education in Ghana. During his time working in Ghana, from 1971 to 1997, his three sons were at boarding school in England. The stories in this book originally accompanied his weekly letters to his sons. In recent years, John Powell has been involved in teaching English to children and secondary school English teachers in Vietnam.

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About the Author

John William Powell, born in Bristol in 1937, has a PhD in engineering and an honorary DSc from the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Kumasi. He was awarded the OBE in 1991 for Services to Technical Education in Ghana. During his time working in Ghana, from 1971 to 1997, his three sons were at boarding school in England. The stories in this book originally accompanied his weekly letters to his sons. In recent years, John Powell has been involved in teaching English to children and secondary school English teachers in Vietnam.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my sons: Robin, Adrian and Steven, for whom these stories were originally written.

Copyright Information ©

John William Powell (2021)

The right of John William Powell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528978712 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528978736 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Acknowledgement

I wish to acknowledge the constant support of my wife, Josephine Nana Abena and my daughter Ohemaa Akosua Brenda, without which this work could not have been prepared. I am also indebted to Tina, wife of Steven, for her enthusiastic encouragement for the publication of this book, and to her daughter, Lana May Powell, for providing the cover illustration.

1. How George Became the

Patron Saint of England

Well, it was in the days of good King Freddie. England had been at war and in turmoil for many years. If it wasn’t trouble on Hadrian’s Wall with King Duncan’s bagpiping barbarians, it was rotten old Pierre, King of France, challenging England to another round of Who quits Aquitaine? Freddie was at his wit’s end, and when he reached that condition, which was rather often, he called for his Prime Minister, Merlin the Whirlin.

Now Merlin was not only the wisest man in England, he had won the gold medal in last year’s Pan-Christendom Clever-Clogs Contest, and he wore the medal proudly on his fur coat, just in case Freddie should forget. Merlin always wore this coat that reached right down to the floor, which wasn’t very far because in an age in which all men were more like dwarfs than Maasai, Merlin was still shorter than most. To compensate for this lack or cranial altitude, Merlin always wore a tall, pointed hat, the tip of which rose higher than Freddie’s crown, which was another reason why Freddie didn’t really like him very much. Being so wise, Merlin was fully cognisant of this fact, but he also knew that Freddie, who couldn’t even read, couldn’t run the country without him. So, he took his time in walking to Freddie’s castle.

Freddie was growing more and more impatient, ‘Where is that wretched midget?’ he asked the servant, who brought him his afternoon cup of goat’s milk. ‘He says it’s his short legs that make him walk so slowly, but I know he does it on purpose.’

‘I’m sure he comes as fast as he can,’ replied the servant, always trying to smooth things out between the two men, who could sack him at a second’s notice. ‘He has a lot on his mind.’

‘He’d have a lot less if he got rid of that stupid hat,’ growled the King.

‘What was that you were saying?’ asked Merlin, coming into the royal presence and pretending to be out of breath.

‘I was just remarking to my good man here that I always have to share my goat’s milk with that stupid cat,’ said Freddie, pointing to his Persian Blue tomcat, Alexander, who slunk away in disgrace. Alexander wasn’t really a Persian Blue, his mother was a feral alley cat who chased rats in the castle dungeons, but after Freddie found out that prisoners in the dungeons didn’t like rats, he took away the cats to be his pets upstairs. He told everyone that Alexander was a Persian Blue, a gift from the Shah of Persia, just to make the French Ambassador jealous, but that’s another story.

‘What’s the trouble today?’ asked Merlin, ‘Has Pierre issued another ultimatum? Do you want me to read it to you?’ Merlin always liked to remind Freddie that he couldn’t read. ‘Is it in English or in French?’

‘No, it’s not Pierre this time,’ replied Freddie, trying to think of a witty repost to Merlin’s taunt, ‘nor Duncan really, although they’re both being as beastly as usual, it’s the plague of monsters.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that Saint Cuthbert is having more trouble than usual,’ said Merlin, anxious to remind his monarch that monsters were not directly the concern of the Prime Minister, but of the Patron Saint and Minister for the Environment.

‘Do you think that my old friend, Cuthbert, is really up to the job these days? He’s getting on in years, perhaps we should retire him.’

‘Well, he certainly slipped up over dealing with that little fellow that Duncan’s mob fished out of Loch Ness,’ replied Merlin. ‘He said it went berserk because the Scots tried to feed it on haggis and salty porridge.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Freddie, ‘we nearly had to revoke the ban on the blowing of bagpipes in the demilitarised zone.’ At this merry recollection, the King laughed so much that Merlin thought he might fall off his throne. He stepped sideways just in time to avoid being knocked over by the burly stabilisers who rushed forward to ensure that the dignity of the sovereign was not compromised.

‘Then there was that silly business down in Somerset when they drained Blagdon reservoir,’ said Merlin. ‘Those weren’t Welsh dragons, I don’t care what Cuthbert says.’

‘Well, if our Patron Saint can’t tell a Welsh dragon from an Irish whatsit, he must be getting past it. Is it time to put him out to grass and recruit a new Minister for the Environment?’

‘Hold on,’ said Merlin. ‘Has a complete review of Cuthbert’s performance been undertaken over the past twelve months? You can’t sack a man without a fully documented appraisal.’ Merlin always insisted on following written procedures because then the King’s illiteracy guaranteed his own job tenure.

‘Take a look at that,’ said Freddie, angrily throwing Merlin a parchment scroll that narrowly missed knocking off his pointed hat.

‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Merlin. ‘You let Cuthbert borrow the finest stallion in your royal stables!’

‘I’m afraid so. He insisted; said he couldn’t guarantee to catch a Hungarian woggalog without it.’

‘A Hungarian woggalog! Heaven forbid! We haven’t got one of those running around in England, have we?’ exclaimed Merlin, pulling on his long, white beard.

‘Cuthbert seems to think so. He borrowed my best lance and sword from the royal armoury as well.’

‘Were the loan documents properly drafted and signed?’

‘No, he just took them and galloped off over the drawbridge heading for Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Then we can sack him for not following proper procedures,’ said Merlin with a big grin.

‘Whom do we appoint in his place?’ asked the King.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Merlin. ‘Who else is there who could do the job?’

***

Now Merlin wasn’t the only one of Freddie’s subjects who was short of stature. George was an impoverished knight who lived in a small, dilapidated castle in a wild patch of forest somewhere in the hills of Gloucestershire. He was not at home, however, but riding his old, grey mare through the hills of Southern Tyrol. Being unemployed, George had decided to try to get a job across the English Channel, but his small stature and old, rusty, ill-fitting armour made potential employers doubt his fighting ability. So, he had travelled far without any luck. He had bought his armour cheaply in a charity shop in Chipping Sodbury, and taken it to a blacksmith in Yate to improve the fit, but the results still left him with stiff arms and a visor that fell shut unpredictably.

Compared to Cuthbert in his shining armour and the king’s best horse, lance and sword, George had to admit that he looked more a wimp than a warrior. Catching sight of his reflection in a still pond beside the beaten track, George told himself that if he were a powerful king or a fierce warlord, he wouldn’t hire this pathetic, little man on his tired nag.

George was also tired, and the sun was sinking behind the mountains to the west, as he stumbled into a small village and decided to stop for the night. Some people ran out to greet him, as visitors were rare in those parts, and he was invited to supper while the old, grey mare munched some hay.

‘We have a problem with your accommodation,’ said George’s host. ‘We have no hotel in the village, so we must decide where you are to sleep.’

‘Oh, I’m not fussy,’ said George, ‘a poor man has no choice. As long as I’m sheltered from the cold wind, I’ll be all right.’

‘That’s the problem,’ said his host, ‘you can sleep in the school building, but it’s rather cold and draughty. On the other hand, our pet Alpine yoddlelog has a nice, warm hut. He quite likes a visitor to snuggle up to at night.’

‘What’s an Alpine yoddlelog?’ asked George.

‘Oh, they’re our local monster species, indigenous to the Alpine region. You can also find them in Switzerland and Bavaria if you want to.’

‘No, thanks,’ said George quickly. As a true Englishman, he could never conceive of a tame monster.

So, George spent a long, cold, sleepless night in the school building, listening to the blissful snoring of the monster in his hut nearby. As he emerged, rattling in his armour on a cool morning, he met the village children coming down the street.

‘Come and watch us feed Little Alpi,’ they cried. ‘You can help if you like.’

George ran back into the school. Projecting his head through a window, he called to the children to go ahead. After a short squabble about whose turn it was today, one of the boys opened the door of the monster’s hut and called the Alpine yoddlelog to come out. His exit was rather diffident, perhaps he scented a stranger, but in a few moments, he emerged and took the food proffered by a little girl in a pretty, pinafore dress.

‘Why don’t you come and help us?’ said a bigger boy to George.

‘Are you sure he’s tame?’ said George in a quaking voice.

‘Of course he is; we’ve raised him from a pup,’ said a fat boy who was helping himself to some of the monster’s food.

‘What’s that you’re feeding him?’ asked George, just beginning to suspect that here was a magic potion that might have commercial possibilities.

‘It’s Marmorgugelhupf cake! Everyone knows that,’ replied the boy with a full mouth. ‘It’s very good, come and try some.’

George emerged from the school building, taking care to keep behind the monster, and took some of the cake from the boy. ‘You’d better fetch some more!’ the fat boy shouted. ‘Our visitor is eating the lot!’

‘Don’t blame others: you’re the one who always eats Little Alpi’s food,’ said a tall, skinny girl who looked like she needed the cake more that the boy, but George had eaten a large portion – he always woke up hungry.

When more cake arrived, George was persuaded to give a little to the monster. Holding it at arm’s length, he trembled as the village pet opened its powerful jaws and showed his big, sharp teeth. George tried to step back, but the children were crowded behind him pushing forwards. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, again the cake was gone.

‘Hurrah!’ called all the children and Little Alpi sank to the ground with a sigh of satisfaction, like a tired dog who had eaten his fill.

George went to see if the old, grey mare had also been fed and found her munching on some fresh hay. ‘I’m afraid the old dear has gone lame,’ said the man who had fed her. ‘A horse of this age should be put out to grass.’

‘It’s just a stone in her hoof,’ said George, ‘but I’ll wait here a day to give her a chance to recover.’ Then he found his way to the village bakery to ask for the recipe of Marmorgugelhupf cake.

‘Your country must be backward and uncivilised,’ said the baker, ‘everyone knows how to make cake. Of course, I have my own special recipe that I don’t normally divulge, but as our children and Alpi like you so much, and you live so far away, I will make an exception.’

‘That’s right, help me to develop my country by transferring the technology,’ said George with a grin, and to his amazement, he was given not only the recipe but a generous supply of cake to eat on his journey home. George had no intention of eating the cake himself, even though he found it very delicious; he planned to keep it to try on some of the monsters that were causing so much trouble in England.

***

Back home in Gloucestershire, George took off his armour and jumped into bed for an armour-off week. Putting on his armour, even with the help of his manservant, Jack, took George nearly a whole day. There was no point in trying to put it on and take it off every day, so George had developed the system of alternating armour-on and armour-off weeks. The system is now so long established that few people remember that it was George who invented it.

Although George habitually slept for a whole week, he still hated waking up. His servant was always fearful of rousing him from his slumbers because George kept his iron armour boots and helmet close at hand to hurl at his tormentor. Anyone doubting the accuracy of his aim in his semi-conscious state only had to ask Jack to show his scars and bruises. So the good man waited, trembling, for the hour to strike when he must do his morning’s duty.

There was a banging on the castle door and the servant rose to open it. He was nearly knocked off his feet by the man who rushed in shouting that he had an urgent message for George from the Mayor of Shrewsbury. Without waiting for a reply, the man dashed up the stairs towards George’s bedroom. Oh dear, thought Jack, I’d better heat some water.

Two sharp yells from George’s bedroom indicated that two of the three missiles had found their mark, and Jack mounted the stairs with his bowl of warm water. After the bruises had been carefully bathed, the visitor was asked what brought him south in such a hurry. ‘It’s an Irish whatsit,’ said the injured man, ‘it’s sitting outside the main gate of the city and preventing people from entering or leaving. The Mayor, your old friend, sent me down the wall on a rope where the monster couldn’t see me and told me to bring you to help.’

‘Monster problems are the concern of the Patron Saint and Minister for the Environment,’ said George. ‘Have you contacted him?’

‘Of course,’ answered the man, ‘everyone knows that, but Cuthbert said he and his men were too busy in the home counties to worry about infestations in the provinces.’

‘But what am I supposed to do?’ pleaded George, hoping for an easy way out but fearing the worst.

‘My master said that you are his best friend, he has known you since you were at archery school together, and if he is to die, he wants you by his side.’

Then an idea struck George. ‘Bring me what’s left of that warm water,’ he said to Jack. ‘I want to clear my head.’ After a good sloshing round with the sponge, George said he was ready to start putting on his armour. ‘That will take all day today,’ he said, ‘and tomorrow we will set out for Shrewsbury. Make sure you bring along that big bag of cake I brought home from my continental tour.’

So the next day saw George back on his old, grey mare with Jack walking behind, winding their way northwards through the leafy lanes of Gloucestershire en-route for Shropshire and its county town of Shrewsbury.

***

As they came in sight of the city’s walls, sure enough, there was a huge, male, Irish whatsit lying sprawled out on the ground about a hundred metres before the city gate. ‘It seems to be asleep,’ said George. ‘If we leave the old grey mare here, we can creep silently past and get inside the city. I’m sure my friend, the Mayor, will open the door just wide enough to let us in.’

‘Are you sure it won’t wake up?’ asked Jack. ‘Maybe he will smell us or sense our footsteps or something…’

‘Either you take the lead, or I’ll stop your salary,’ said George.

‘But you don’t pay me any salary.’

‘Don’t argue with your master; just do what you’re told.’

Seeing no other way out, Jack crept silently forward in his bare feet. He succeeded in passing the sleeping whatsit and making his way to the big, wooden gate in the city wall. The Mayor saw him coming and ordered his gatekeeper to open the door just wide enough for the man to slip in. George wanted to shout to keep the gate open, but he feared waking the monster, so he crept forward, every step bringing him nearer to the sanctuary of the city.

Now, it’s virtually impossible to creep silently in armour, especially when the armour is old, rusty and badly fitting. George was only a few yards from his goal when his armour let out a sharp, scraping sound. In his panic, George overbalanced and fell flat on his face with a loud clang. The whatsit raised its great head and sniffed the air. George struggled to stand up but it was too late. The Mayor ordered the gate to be shut and bolted.

Seeing its tiny tormentor, the Irish whatsit let out a sheet of scorching flame that caught George with such a shock that he leapt high into the air, clear over the city wall, and landed with another great clang upon a cobbled street within the city. His friend, the Mayor, came hurrying down from his lofty perch on the wall, and finding George once more struggling to get up, he helped the little knight to his feet.

‘Congratulations!’ shouted the Mayor. ‘You’ve just broken the Shropshire all-comers’ record for the armour-on high jump.’

‘Yes, I often achieve these feats of athletic prowess,’ gasped George.

It was too late to do much more that night, and so the Mayor took his visitors to his mansion for supper. ‘What can we do about your friend beyond the city wall?’ the Mayor asked George.

‘Are you sure you can’t get Cuthbert?’ asked George.

‘No hope, I’m afraid,’ replied the Mayor. ‘Cuthbert has his hands full over in Kent. It seems a whole flock of Breton bongloppers has blown in across the channel. Too near to London for Freddie’s comfort; we’re assigned a much lower priority.’ The Mayor assumed his official worried look and gazed pleadingly at George. ‘Can’t you think of anything?’ he said at last.

‘We could try the cake,’ said George.

‘What cake?’ asked the Mayor.

‘The Marmorgugelhupf cake that I brought back from Austria.’ Then George told his friend about Alpi, the tame Alpine yoddlelog.

‘I think you must have banged your head when you came down from your great leap,’ said the Mayor. ‘Why don’t you have a good sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.’

At breakfast the next morning, George repeated his proposal and the Mayor reluctantly gave his blessing, provided George and his servant were willing to make the attempt unaided.

They hurried to unpack the cake from Austria, and George took a large piece up onto the top of the city wall. The monster was asleep near the gate. George hurled the cake to land as near the monster’s head as possible. Then they all waited for the great creature to wake up. It was a long wait, but eventually even reptiles feel hungry. The big beast sniffed the air and sensing that food was nearby, he turned his attention to the cake and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he settled down to resume his slumbers with a grunt that sounded like, ‘Lovely!’

‘Just nip out and stroke him, he’s quite tame now,’ said George to Jack.

‘Not likely, you’re the one who wears the armour.’

George called out to his friend, the Mayor, ‘Would you like to be remembered for a thousand years as the great hero who rid his city of the scourge of the Irish whatsit?’

‘Yes,’ said the Mayor, ‘but not for being burned to a cinder in the sight of all the citizenry. It’s your idea, you go and prove it.’

This was what George had feared, but he could see no other way out. So he asked for the gate to be opened just wide enough for him to slip through. It was closed and bolted again as soon as he was outside. ‘What’s that clanging noise?’ asked the Mayor, and then they all realised it was George’s ironclad knees knocking together. He inched forward slowly until his outstretched iron-gloved hand reached the monster’s tail.

‘Ah, nice monster,’ he said softly, as he stroked the scaly skin.

Now, nobody knew in those days that the sensation would take about a minute to reach the monster’s head. Had it been known, it might have been joked that anyone treading on a dinosaur’s tail had sixty seconds in which to write his will. So George waited in increasing panic, as the seconds ticked by.

The great whatsit awoke again, and sensing that something was interfering with its tail, it slowly raised itself and turned around. Seeing the tiny, ironclad figure, it lowered its head to investigate further. George stood stock still, his eyes tight closed, praying that his end would be quick and painless. Then a loud aaaaah arose from the city wall, as the people realised that the monster was licking George’s ironclad head as a dog licks his master’s face. George quickly gave his new friend the rest of the Marmorgugelhupf cake to ensure the continuation of the effect.

Then the citizens of Shrewsbury welcomed George back into the city and the Mayor called for three hearty cheers. He hosted a great banquet in George’s honour. ‘What do you propose to do now?’ asked the Mayor.

‘Oh, I think I’ll take my new pet back with me to Gloucestershire. I might start a menagerie,’ said George. Then he asked the Mayor if his baker could prepare more of the magic cake to ensure that the whatsit stayed tame on the return journey. ‘I can’t wait for another armour-off week,’ he said, ‘I find all this excitement really exhausting.’

‘Well, thanks for coming,’ said the Mayor. ‘I’ll call you again when I need you.’

George had no trouble taking the whatsit home. The monster just followed the funny, little, tin-clad fellow who had given him the delicious, new grub. On reaching his castle, George followed his usual routine: it was off with his armour, woosh into bed and zzzzzzzzzz in English.

***

Communications have always been behind the times in England but in Freddie’s times, they were particularly bad: no telephones, no internet, no texting, no emails. It was only recently that Merlin had persuaded Freddie to invest in a pigeon post like the one they had in France, but that wasn’t working yet because the monsters were frightening the pigeons. So, it was some time before the news of George’s exploit reached the ears of majesty and power.

Merlin the Whirlin brought the news to Freddie. ‘Who is this little chap George?’ asked Freddie.

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Merlin, ‘but he seems to know something about the control of monsters.’

‘Which is more than can be said about Cuthbert,’ said the King. ‘Do you think we could make George Patron Saint and Minister for the Environment?’

‘It depends how much he wants to be paid,’ said Merlin. ‘The royal coffers are nearly empty since you spent all that money repairing Hadrian’s Wall.’ Merlin knew that Freddie now wanted it called Freddie’s Wall, so he expected an irritable response.

‘Oh, offer him three and six a week and have done with it,’ said Freddie angrily.

These were days long before even the French had decimal coinage. In Freddie’s time, every penny was stamped with Freddie’s image and he loved to count his small change and see so many little Freddies spread out on the table. He knew that so many pennies made a shilling, but however many times he asked Merlin, he could never remember that it was twelve. A shilling was a silver coin, and Freddie loved to see his shiny, silver head.

Merlin, being First Lord of the Treasury as well as Prime Minister, also knew that twenty shillings made a pound, but a pound was such a lot of money that only Freddie had some of those coins, so they were called golden sovereigns. Freddie was so proud to have his head on a golden coin that he kept a few to show visiting ambassadors.

Merlin sometimes wondered how many pennies made up a pound. It must be a lot. He felt that he could work it out if only he had enough time to spare from his official duties. Right now, however, he must try to find this fellow George and offer him not more than three shillings and six pence a week to take over from St Cuthbert as Minister for the Environment.

***

Merlin arrived at George’s castle during an armour-off week. He banged on the castle door with his walking stick, but it was some time before Jack was awakened and opened the door. Seeing the little chap in a tall, pointed hat, he asked who he was and what did he want.

‘I’m Merlin the Whirlin, Prime Minister of England and First Lord of the Treasury, sent by His Royal Highness King Freddie with