Night of the Unicorn
Master Ulfgar the Unspeakable
My name is Ulfgar the Unspeakable. "Unspeakable," you say, "what’s wrong with the guy?" Most people do. It gives me license to get a way with most things. And in fact I’ve gotten away with just about everything I can. But one thing that has always eluded me is banishment. Someone with a name like mine should have been banished at least once in his career. In fact, I deliberately tried for it once.
It was at the Feast of Michaelmas AS XXXII or there abouts. I was autocratting this event and have been unfairly accused by various slanderous sources of deliberately holding the event solely to get banished. Fair cop! I figure if you’re going to get banished you may as well do it properly. Nothing as simple as insulting the Prince or dressing up as a Celt wearing nothing but woad and a grin and serving a third remove of hot sausage. NO! I decided to do something on a somewhat smaller scale that would go down in infamy.
Now the Princess at the time was a lovely young rose who loved small furry creatures, flowers and rainbows. Not surprisingly, her device features a unicorn. Not a regular unicorn of heraldry, a BIG strong beast, but rather a doe eyed, soft haired, Walt Disney variant thereof. Friends to Thumper and small butterflies in distress…. I could hardly resist it, could I??!! Some courts in the land would have even bought a charge of provoked assault.
Now it is custom at my feasts to serve large and ornate subtleties with each remove featuring candied flowers or stuffed pheasants and the like. What better, I thought, than perhaps a Unicorn?!…..but with my own special Unspeakable touch. So rather than the whole unicorn, I decided upon just the head…SEVERED…….and BLEEDING!
I moulded the whole thing from fruitcake, covered in marzipan and painted with food dye. It was a nice healthy gangrenous flesh colour. Complete with lolling tongue and rolling eyes open in death. And as the piece d’resistance we added pureed cherries as blood, poured liberally over the bleeding stump of the neck.
This was presented to the High Table by means of a loud exclamation coming from the kitchen. "Get out of it!, You !@#$%^&(*)+_|!!!!!" Where upon the Herald entered the hall and apologised as the last subtlety had been eaten by some beast, tethered in the royal stables. At this point I entered the hall carrying not the subtlety but rather the head of the beast that had eaten it.
There was only one grin in the entire hall, I must admit. Mine! The Prince looked as though I had served his naked mother as a fruit platter for desert. The look on his face plainly said, ‘Your card’s punched, Matey!’ And gently enquired with the grace of a Knight, if I would be in armour on the morrow. The Princess, however, had gone a most interesting shade of white as she stared wide-eyed at the horror on the plate. It would not have surprised me in the slightest if she had burst in to tears. But she didn’t. Bummer!
I wish I had it all on video. It would have been one of those priceless moments I could comfort myself with on long evenings. Slow framing forward to the exact moment of heartbreak evolving into horror in turn becoming nervous maniacal laughter.