The struggle between Boris son of John and Jeremiah the Qweynt to become Mayor of the Palace now came to a head. As I have told you, many people foretold that Boris would win this conflict and so it came to pass, but not without many a moment of ridicule and futility, as I must now relate.

Jeremiah had challenged Boris to a second Ordeal of the Stools just before the fracas at Boris’ lodgings, which I have already narrated. Boris had escaped that scandal by a cunning trick. His followers revealed a manuscript illumination showing him and his concubine having a pleasant drink in the garden of a roadside tavern which, they said, showed that there could have been no serious altercation between them. However, this picture showed Boris with his old barbarian hairstyle, which he had cut as a way of showing that he was now a serious fellow. Although his deceit was revealed, it made little difference for the Devil had, through their sins, been able to fill his supporters’ empty heads with nonsense.

So the two counts came face-to-face in a second Ordeal of the Stools, as in his temerity Jeremiah had wanted. This time the rivals elected to stand and face the questioners, for this was a more serious trial than the first. The stools were cast away in favour of an unconvincing picture of the Mayor’s house in Londinium, which some said undercut the seriousness of the whole occasion. Both declared that they would lead the kingdom of the Angles, Saxons, Britons, Picts, and Scots to a great victory against the Western Empire, even if it meant charging off a cliff. At this stage, the ordeal had the makings of a classic. Alas, the Qweynt was routed when, in his overconfidence, he forgot the rules of the ordeal and tried twice at least to sound rational. The son of John seizing his opportunity and spoke almost without pause in unending words of wickedness and fatuity. Jeremiah skulked a way in defeat.

Shortly afterwards, Boris addressed a large crowd of his supporters among the faction of the Right Bastards. He brandished a fish above his head, showing by this sign how tyrannous was the rule of the Western Empire. What oppression indeed! That a wealthy and fortunate man should be reduced to holding aloft a smoked herring just to impress the old folk of the realm!

As I write these words I fear the censure of more learned men, saying O uncouth and unlettered prelate! Are you so blind that you cannot see the many fish-based puns openly waiting here to be made, and made venerable by the usage of the ages? To this, unworthy though I am, I reply that a writer of even my modest talent should avoid the diabolical temptation of plucking such low-hanging fruit, of pursuing such limping prey, just for the worldly sake of a few easy laughs. Woe that I might seem so washed up.

The campaign of Boris’ rival, meanwhile, went from bad to worse. First, he forgot to attend an important meeting of the Great Council of the Realm and appeared even more foolish in the eyes of the people. Then things declined further. Such was the levity of mind that had overtaken the Right Bastards that Jeremiah and Boris strove to impress Donald, dux of the Aremoricans. Donald’s latest mad scheme to make himself look like a great warrior involved attempting to provoke a war with the Persian Empire. To this end he instructed Jeremiah, who as I have told you was Count Palatine of Overseas Diplomacy, to have his ships seize a Persian vessel. This was done but then the Persians captured a merchantman belonging to the Angles, Saxons, Britons, Picts, and Scots. Jeremiah had put his trust in the support of Donald, but this was foolish for the old jester thought of none save himself. Deprived of the hoped-for Aremorican support, Jeremiah was forced to beg for a fleet from the Western Empire, whom he and his faction despised beyond measure and insulted daily. Thus was Jeremiah brought lower still in the eyes of all. His embarrassment was made yet worse when, unlike the fickle Donald, Macronius ruler of the Franks agreed that a flotilla of imperial galleys should be sent to help. So, with the last of his enemies in disarray, Boris son of John was allowed to seek the approval of the Queen of the Angles, Saxons, Britons, Picts, and Scots as the new Mayor of the Palace. Such was Boris’ repeated fatuity, sinfulness, and incapacity that only the Prince of Demons could have made his eventual rise to the title of Mayor seem so inevitable, as some sort of chastisement for the sins of the people. No sooner was his victory announced than Donald dux made a proclamation congratulating Boris on his triumph, which, as was usual in his public pronouncements, he issued in the language of Gibberish. His favourite daughter, Catatonica, also issued a pronouncement, but spelled the name of the realm incorrectly, for she was a simple soul. Thus low, peccatis facientibus, fell the once mighty kingdom of the Angles, Saxons, Britons, Picts, and Scots and, though some wept to see it so, others thought that, in a broad historical context, it probably served them right.