When the Great Plague raged in the Kingdom of the Angles, Saxons, Britons, Picts and Scots, the government of Boris son of John responded at first by doing nothing, as I have told you. They said that the plague was but a light fever and only someone like unto Johannes Barbarus, or Johnny Foreigner as they say in their language, would fear such an ague. Indeed, the Mayor of the Mayor of the Palace, Dominicus of Comminges declared that the best thing to do was to let the plague carry off whomsoever it willed. Since these people would mostly be old people, the wily Mayor of the Mayor thought that this would get rid of useless folk and save the chancery a pretty penny. Some writers in one of the chronicles of the realm, which is called ‘The Daily Telegraph’, waxed lyrical about the brilliance of this plan for it was devoted to Boris’ cause and especially to the rebellion against the Western Empire. The patrons of this chronicle are reputed to be two twins who live, so they say, in a cave on one of the islands off Coutances and never venture out lest they be compelled somehow to pay some due or other to the royal fisc. These men kept their wealth on this island and for that reason it was called an off-shore account. Such madness does the love of money bring to those it entrances. O men! Have you not enough gold and silver? Far from squirrelling it away, burying it in hoards, concealing it amid the transient clay of this world, on isles in the broad Atlantean Sea or yet in many a dodgy tax-avoidance scheme, you should spend your fortunes on the poor and unfortunate. In so doing, you should amass a far greater treasure and have the option of shares in the eternal kingdom of the Lord (see what I did there?). This word ‘Telegraph’, with which they entitled their chronicle, comes from the language of the Greeks of which, in my unlettered ignorance, I know little. A wise man, however, told me that in that tongue it means ‘Writing from Far Away’. In these dark days the true meaning of this chronicle’s name became only too clear for these chroniclers’ writing seemed far away from decency or indeed any kind of sane or godly thought at all. After a while, though, the chroniclers and the members of Boris’ council remembered that most of the readers of this chronicle and the supporters of the Faction of the Right Bastards, notably the Blue-Haired Elders of whom I have told you, were themselves old people. Wise men would have spotted this long before but, alas, such men are as rare in this government as they are in the bishop’s house in Nantes.

So it came to pass that, at this point, Boris’ council finally bestirred itself to do something. It commanded all the people to stay at home and lock their doors. The exception was that in the evening of every Thursday, which as you know is the holy day of the pagans, all the Angles, Saxons, Britons, Picts, and Scots should come out of their crannogs and their forts, out of their timber, post-built halls and sunken huts of disputed function and ethnic origin, and cheer for the National Apothecary Service. Then they should all go indoors again and try not to notice for another week that the Right Bastards were taking this service apart and selling it off to their friends. It was decreed that none might set foot abroad for more than a short perambulation and that but once a day. Only those whose services were deemed essential were permitted to attend their places of work. Everyone should stand at least two full ells from anyone else, unless they were of the same household, and some form of a veil should be worn if someone were compelled to enter the presence of other people. Journeying far afield was prohibited and the men of the Watch were told to turn back any who tried to do so with stern warnings and the imposition of a hefty wergeld. Going on holiday was right out. With fortitude, the people of this afflicted realm locked down, as they said, and for a while did their best to abide by the council’s decrees.