CHARLES AND PAUL “Well, at the very least, old chap, your brother’s table manners are appalling.” This, in Charlespeak, was a dire insult, the worst he could summon in the circumstances. “Sorry, Charles, there was nothing personal, you understand. He just thought you were lunch,” said I as apologetically as I could. David loitered in the background and repeated the ‘disgust-grunt’ at the suggestion of eating Charles (which, fortunately, Charles did not understand.) “Very well, Oliver, Our Royal Majesty shall overlook this most egregious insult to our person,” said Charles, adopting his most haughty manner. “We shall speak no more of it.” “And really, Oliver,” Charles continued. “Your Roundheads have been behaving in the most beastly way ...” My Roundheads? “...Yfaith, my fine young Cavaliers have been treated very poorly, very poorly indeed.” His Cavaliers? I looked to Paul (whom I now recognised). Paul had emerged from the crypt once he realised David’s attack was over. “You would be Oliver Cromwell?” he asked tentatively. I shrugged. That’s what Charles had always called me. “And, may I take it that your brother has naturally become a general in the Roundhead army?” Behind Charles’ back, Paul nodded and smiled in an exaggerated fashion, suggesting that I ‘play along’. He pointed to Charles, now seated and recovering from his ordeal at David’s hands.
CHARLES HA POWL “Wel, ow sos koth, rag leverel dhe’n lyha, norter dha vroder dhe’n voes yw yn sempel euthyk.” An geryow ma, yn yeth Charles, o arvedhenn skruthus, an re gwettha a allsa kavoes y’n kas na. “Drog yw genev, a Charles, nyns esa travyth bersonel yn y gever, dell wodhesta. Ev a grysi yn sempel dha vos liv,” yn-medhav vy – mar dhiharesek dell yllyn. Y krowdra Davydh a-dro dhyn ni ha dasleverel an ‘rogh-divlas’ pan brofysen ev dhe alloes dybri Charles (na gonvedhas Charles, yn gwella prys.) “Pur dha, a Oliver, Agan Meuredh Ryal re erviras fyllel gweles an satta arvedhenn ma dh’agan person,” yn-medh Charles, ow kul devnydh a’y woedhussa maner. “Ny leveryn ni na fella yn y gever.” “Hag, yn hwir, a Oliver,” a besyas Charles. “Yth esa dha Bennow-rond owth omdhegi yn gis milus dres eghenn...” Ow Fennow-rond? “...Re’m fay, ow Varghogyon deg ha yowynk re veu dyghtyes re dhrog, re dhrog yn hwir.” Y Varghogyon? My a viras orth Powl (neb a aswonnis vy lemmyn). Powl re dhothya dhiworth an gleudhgell pan gonvedhsa bos fynsyes omsettyans Davydh. “Ytho, Oliver Cromwell osta?” a wovynnas ev a-gynnik. My a sevis ow diwskoedh. Henn o pyth a’m gelwis Charles pup-prys.. “Ha, heb mar, dha vroder res eth ha bos pennhembrenkyas y’n lu Pennow- rond?” A-dryv keyn Charles, Powl a benn-droppyas ha minhwerthin yn fordh meur hy mogheans. Gans hemma, yth esa ow profya y hwariiv an fayntys ma ganso. Ev a boyntyas dhe Charles, lemmyn a’y esedh, ow taskavoes y honan wosa y brevyans gans Davydh.langbot langbot