Page 82 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“There’s to be no courtship,” James answered firmly. “Instead of a romance I was thinking it could be a tragedy. False Billiam could...have some kind of ailment.” He shrugged. Yes, that was it. An ailment. Ned Bevan had an ailment, not him though. He was in perfect health.

“What kind of ailment?” Hadrian asked, looking intrigued.

“A bad one. The kind where body parts drop off,” James answered with decision.

The boys all sat up with interest. “You mean, so he loses a limb in every verse?” Kit queried.

“Inspired!” Hal decided.

“Yes,” Cuthbert chimed in. “You could start out with small things like a finger or a thumb and then build up to larger limbs.”

“You do not think that would alter the tone of the piece?” James asked with misgiving. It sounded more comical than tragic.

“Yes, it would make it better,” Hal replied firmly.

“Only consider,” Cuthbert suggested, “if you start all flowery at the beginning, everyone expects it to be one way, but then in the second half it turns funny, only think how surprised everyone will be!”

“And the last body part can be his twig and berries,” Kit said eagerly. “But in every verse leading up to that one, the audience has to think will be his pizzle. Like, have a rhyming part to it, that ends up being something entirely innocent. You know the trick of it, I expect.”

“I really don’t,” James responded.

“Like have him lose his fizzle, instead of his pizzle,” explained Kit.

“What the hells is a fizzle?” Hal demanded.

“I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed,” Kit admitted.

“Then how is Wycliffe to?” Hal asked with disgust. “He already told us he’s no wordsmith!”

“Very well, then,” Kit responded with dignity. “Have him lose a lock, as in a bit of his hair, then in the next line, tumpty-tumpty-tumpty off fell his cock.”

The boys all groaned. “That’s terrible, Montmayne,” Cuthbert said, speaking for the group.

“’Tis plain to see you’re no poet!” Hadrian hooted.

“I never said I was!” Kit responded hotly. “Very well, let’s hear your suggestions, if you’re so superior at rhyming than I!”

“Ignore him,” Cuthbert said, turning back to James. “It could definitely work. And then for the next ballad, you could make it really tragic. Have False Billiam get an ulcerated leg.”

“But make it really foul smelling, puss filled, and oozing,” Hadrian put in enthusiastically. James lowered his piece of toast.

“That does not sound romantic at all,” Hal objected. “What you should do, instead of giving him an ulcerated leg, is have False Billiam thrown from the castle ramparts, or else dashed to death under some horse’s hooves. Have him die some noble death like that.”

“Why could he not plunge to his death whilst also possessing a rotting leg?” James asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

Hal sent him a stern look. “Now you’re not taking it seriously.”

James’s lips twitched. It was true, he was not taking it seriously.

“Then he could come back and haunt the Fair Eliza for playing him false,” Hadrian concluded with satisfaction. “You always find ghosts in ballads.”

“There is no Fair Eliza,” Kit reminded him. “Did you not hear Wycliffe say so?”

“In truth, I have no intention of writing this masterpiece,” James admitted before another row broke out. “I am convinced I would make a very poor job of it.”

“A pity,” said Hal, shaking his head. “I’m half inclined to have a stab at writing it myself.”

“Please do. I make you a present of my idea.”