The Bawdy Bard: A Gutter Sonata: The Bawdy Bard, #1

By Andrew Marc Rowe

Who's got two thumbs, a lute, and magical powers?

This guy. The decidedly anonymous bawdy bard is a man who seems to have it all: more ale and wenches than a hedonistic degenerate knows what to do with. All is well in his world – at least when he rolls into Io's Breath, a frozen city on the edge of the kingdom of his birth.

When a commission for a fancy new lute leads the bawdy bard into a meeting with the Duke of Io's Breath, the bard's silver tongue and carefree attitude gets him selected for the job of a lifetime. In the shadow of an impending war, the foul-mouthed musician must decide whether the lure of position and riches is worth dredging up his past.

As the memories – and identity – of a life he left behind come rushing back, the bard treks across the land to meet his destiny. Is his musical magic strong enough to put diplomatic end to a war before it's even begun? And what of the battle that rages within? Can our man in fancy tights deal with demons of days gone by with a song and a dance?

Hold on to your floppy feathered hats.

The Bawdy Bard: A Gutter Sonata is the first in the Bawdy Bard comedic fantasy series. If you like dirty humour, potent magic, and strong flatulence, you'll love Andrew Marc Rowe's obscenely fascinating adventure.

Get your copy of The Bawdy Bard to break into the bardic scene today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sophic Press
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990159138

Book preview

The Bawdy Bard

A Gutter Sonata

By Andrew Marc Rowe

Sophic Press

Pouring this one out for my homie, Dalton. I dream that wherever death finds you, laughter is at the top of your list.

A second draught goes to Emil, my Scandinavian brother. Skol!

Warning

This is a bawdy tale – think an epic limerick joke. In the pages that follow, you will find all manner of unexpected utterances, cursing, swearing, vulgarity, depravity, shagging, onanism, lewd acts, questionable table etiquette, and many of the other kinds of things that some human beings tend to find funny. If you do not count yourself a part of such sophisticated company, perhaps this is not your book. But if your funny bone be tickled by such material, have I got a tale for you…

Epigraph

PYRAMUS

O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!

THISBE

I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, William Shakespeare

Suck your dick for silver, came a gravelly voice.

Quince closed the door and looked back to me. It’s for you.

Shakespeare For Squirrels, Christopher Moore

The Luthier’s Workshop

If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive, do you think ghosts will do it after?

Kabir

★★★★★

Why fool’s gold?

The luthier looked up from his task. The customer had been exacting in his specifications, particularly where the neck was concerned. He wanted it thin and speckled with pyrite, a fool’s gold in-lay, something to give it a gaudy sheen. The whole lute was like that: loud and colourful, from the cheap jewel-encrusted pegboard to the pearlescent shell bridge. The peacock feather paint job was the least note-worthy request of the lot.

What’s that? asked the luthier.

Fool’s gold, said the luthier’s apprentice. Why put bloody fool’s gold in the neck? It’s just goin’ to ruin the wood’s stability, make it harder to tune. It’ll pop out of same after every song, I’ll warrant. You explained that to ‘im, right? This guy plays a lot of the taverns - it’s no’ goin’ to be tucked away on some shelf in the study, growin’ dusty as the patron pretends that he’s a lutenist… like most of our work.

The luthier nodded and shrugged. It was hardly the oddest order he had produced in his decades-long career as luthier for the City of Io’s Breath. Strangest would probably be the one with the phallus end on the pegboard - a private job for one of the Lords on Council. Hardest to construct, too, that one. At least this bard’s custom order only added a few hours to build time. Getting the agate from the miner’s guild was the hardest piece of this particular puzzle.

Bit of a bawd, too, I hear, continued the apprentice. Can’t stop swearin’ in he’s ballads and chants. Scandalized more’n a few of the more… fragile patrons, I hear.

Don’t know nothin’ about that, said the luthier. It was one of his stock responses to gossip, and one that his apprentice heard quite a bit as the days in his service came and went. The apprentice, being a gossip himself, never let his master’s gruff and silent nature stop him.

Word has it that the lech bairned up a tavern wench down in Trosica, continued the apprentice. Snuck out one night after things got too hot with the girl’s father. No surprise there: could tell the moment he entered the shop that he was no’ the marryin’ type.

The luthier harrumphed and returned to his work. You’ll get nowhere indulging in idle chatter, Ringo. Without looking up from the neck he pointed to the entrance of the workshop. Go and fetch me another scallop shell - the one Darius gave you has a crack into it.

The bloody thing is going to break as soon as you try to carve it, said Ringo the apprentice. Every bit of material on this lute is ill-con… ill-con… it’s all bloody stupid.

Let me worry about makin’ it work, lad, said the luthier, applying the sanding stone to the bit of pyrite he was preparing. Then he paused and turned to his pupil once more. The customer has the real stuff, he continued, holding up the fool’s gold for Ringo to see. So, he’s always right.

Right bad with the judgment, I say, said Ringo, defiant as he began his exit.

Maybe I’m the one who was bad with the judgment, choosin’ to take you on instead of Ivan, called the luthier to the apprentice. You keep whingin’ on about our customers behind their backs, they’re like to hear you and take their business elsewhere. Shut yer hole and do yer work - save you quite a bit of trouble in the long run.

Ringo made an angry show of stitching his mouth shut with an imaginary needle then waved as he exited. The luthier sighed and began to return to his work… but was interrupted by another person entering the workshop. He greeted Ringo loudly as the apprentice left, who returned the greeting with a pale facsimile of the fervour with which it had been delivered.

Trouble in paradise, is it? asked the bard. He was dressed in the most flamboyant clothing you could imagine - purple and yellow cloth seemed to be pouring out of the silk of his vestments, a geyser of colour that could not help but catch the eye. A mustache nearly as thin as a quill sat above his upper lip, one that seemed to stretch out into space as its ends came to rest on either side of the man’s mouth. On his head, he wore a wide-brimmed hat with three carefully tucked peacock feathers. He was wearing the antithesis to the simple brown and white of the luthier’s clothing. No wonder he had ordered a lute such as this.

Pardon me? asked the luthier, putting on the posh affect he adopted when dealing with customers.

You and the boy - he was fit to be tied. I’ve seen more than my share of those kinds of looks. Usually on the faces of former lovers when I grace their township after an extended absence on the road. I assume you and Ringo are…

The words dropped off and it took a moment for the luthier to understand the bard’s meaning.

No, said the luthier firmly, betraying the beginnings of indignant rage on his face. This man rubbed him decidedly the wrong way.

I apologize for my directness, said the bard. Wouldn’t be the first time a craftsman gave his apprentice the extra lessons, if you get my drift. In fact, I’ve a new song about a smith and his boy, though I’m having a hard time with the title. Can’t decide if it is to be called ‘Hammering Steel’ or ‘Forge Fingers.’ Here, why don’t you help me out - I’ll give you a few lines from the song. The bard cleared his throat.

Hair swept by wind,

face blackened by fire,

Evening eyes in the forge,

discretion thrown to the pyre

Bend over the anvil,

my sweetness trumps my ire

Fetch me the bacon grease,

time to start real fire

A silence hung in the luthier’s workshop.

I’ll admit it needs work, said the bard. Rhyming ‘fire’ twice is a pedestrian mistake. But I think it paints the picture of arse-fucking a smith’s apprentice quite well. Another pause. It’s the bridge, you know. Of the song. A few verses and a chorus and all that come before, a bit about sweaty men and hairy chests and sexual awakening in the apprentice and all that. Can’t have the climax with no build-up - my teenage years are far behind me. Still, though. Gotta service everyone - it’s not just women and men loving each other in Io’s Breath, I can guaran-fucking-tee you that.

Indeed, said the luthier, his mind returning to the lord’s cock-lute commission once more. Your lute won’t be ready for a few days. Some of the items you’ve requested… we’ve had a couple of issues with some of the procurements.

Hmm, said the bard. Perhaps I can get a loaner? I’ve got a gig coming up tonight and I need to have something to play in the interim.

What happened to your old lute?

I lost it in a bet just now, said the bard. He then immediately sighed and said, Sorry, no. That was a lie. In truth, I broke it jumping out of a window. The bard paused, assessing the luthier. He astutely decided that the man was not the gossiping type. Escaping from Lady Esmeralda’s bedchamber. Thankfully, I was not caught, but the lute did not make it.

The luthier made a face and turned to his wall of pre-fabricated instruments. You write songs about love between smiths and apprentices, and yet you cavort with the married women of Io’s Breath.

Yes, said the bard. Silence hung once more. Oh, they’re not mutually exclusive, he eventually continued, if that’s what you’re thinking. Love does remain love, no matter what parts are involved. I’ve plenty of chants about fertile maidens and young bucks, as well as tales of wrinkled crones and elderly tadger-smiths. But I think that there would be less need for knights if the ‘hard’ men involved in warfare admitted that they would prefer to spear their mate in the barracks rather than the enemy on a battlefield. Misdirected energy, that. No shame in recognizing that we are all human - I find it’s my path and destiny to remind people of that fact.

Fruit and a half, muttered the luthier, shaking his head at the man. He tried not to judge his patrons but this man was just too much.

Aye, said the bard. And proud of it.

Here, said the luthier, handing the bard one of the older and more battered looking lutes hanging from the wall. You’ll need to pay me for the string and the rental. Tuppence a day should do it. The strings are another penny. I’ll need five pence today - you’ll get two back if you return it tomorrow. If you need it for longer, I’ll need payment on return.

No chance of a free loan, given that I’m paying you a hundred gold for that lute you’re crafting for me?

None, said the luthier.