Thinking back, the main topic of conversation with the young ladies had been the aphorisms of Oscar Wilde – a topic with which these middle-class suburban girls seemed entirely unacquainted. Since running into Paul again at University (he was continuing with French), I noted he still had many close friends who were attractive girls. And now I find that he had been attacked in a crypt with Charles while naked. Both he and Charles had been bitten but, unlike every other male I knew that had been bitten, they had both recovered. I decided to explore further. “Paul, you said you became ill after you got bitten?” “Certainly. That’s true. I remember the day after the attack, when we scavenged in the gate-keeper’s house, but nothing after that until yesterday. It was like I was asleep for those days. His Royal Majesty tended to me – or so he says.” “Indeed,” said Charles. “Our court has been much reduced of late and there was need to preserve our standards. The Roundheads press upon us even now, as you have seen for yourself.” Fine. “Did you get sick, too, Charles?” Charles considered his answer. “No, Oliver. We cleaned and bound our wound – just as we had done for Paul – and there was some discomfort but ... no, we did not get ill. On the other hand, we thought Paul had died. He lay there without moving, pale and feverish, for several days. We were in the process of planning a simply wonderful funeral service at St. Patrick’s cathedral when he started to recover. We had the music planned and everything. Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ would have been suitable, don’t you think? Though we know the Pope is not a big fan. In any event, Paul proved to be an ungrateful wretch and, unexpectedly, as we said, started to recover. However, today is the very first day he has really been up and about.” (Paul was, in better times, a reasonable athlete.) So, was there a pattern here?
My a borth kov lemmyn a jyf mater an keskows dhe vos gwirebow Oskar Waylde. Nyns o mater aswonnys mann dhe’n myrghes burjesek ma re dhothya dhiworth an ranndrevow. My re dhothya erbynn Powl unnweyth arta dhe’n Bennskol. Yth esa hwath ow studhya an yeth frynkek ha, dres henna, yth esa hwath dhodho meur a gowethesow teg. Byttegyns, my a’n kavsa lemmyn bos omsettyes, hag ev noeth, yn kleudgell gans Charles. An dhew re via brethys mes, dihaval dhe oll an bolatys erell a wodhvien bos brethys, i re omwellhasa. My a erviras hwithra nebes pella. “’Bowl, ty a leveris ty dhe dhos ha bos klav wosa bos brethys?” “Yn sur. Henn yw gwir. My a borth kov a’n jydh wosa an omsettyans warnav. Yth esen ni ow hwilas y’n ji an porther. Byttegyns, wosa henna, ny allav perthi kov a dravyth bys de. Yth o kepar dell en yn kosk dres an dydhyow na. Y Veuredh Ryel a’m gwitha – po dell leveris.” “Yn hwir,” yn-medh Charles. “Agan lys re via lehes yn feur a-gynsow hag yth esa edhomm dhyn gwitha agan skwirys. Yma an bennow-rond ow hornella hwath warnon ni y’n dydhyow ma kepar dell veu gwelys gans dha dhewlagas dhe honan.” Pur dha. “A wrussowgh mos ha bos klav, agas honan, a Jarles?” Charles a brederis a-dro dh’y worthyp. “Na wrussyn, a Oliver. Ni a lanhes agan goli – kepar dell wrussen rag Powl – hag yth esa dhyn neb digonfort mes ... Na, nyns ethen ha bos klav. Y’n kontrari part, ni a grysi Powl dhe verwel. Yth esa a’y worwedh heb gwayans, gwynn ha terthennek y fas, dres nebes dydhyow. Ni re dhallathsa tewlel oferenn deg ragdho yn Penneglos Sen Padryk pan dhallathas ev omwellhe. Ni re dowlsa an musyk ha puptra oll. Y fia gwiw ‘Requiem’ Mozart, a ny grysydh? (Kyn preder an Pab y vos ansans.) Yn neb kas, y provas Powl bos anfeusik unkinda ha, heb y waytyas, ev a dhallathas omwellhe, dell leversyn ni. Byttegyns, hedhyw yw yn hwir an kynsa dydh y vos strik kepar dell yw herwydh y usadow.” (Powl o athlet da lowr, yn gwella termynyow.) Ytho, esa patron bos kevys omma?langbot langbot