once a ponce a time...

the riders crested the hill. the scene in the little valley below confirmed what their noses had been hinting at for a while now.

'tis a bloody day's work, havalad', said the leader.

'indeed it is, ponce-a-lot.'

'ain't seed nuffin like this in years, sire.' a bundle of rags on two legs spoke.

the two mounted men looked down at it - or rather, him, because the unfortunate creature was (more or less) human - with expressions of sheer disgust.

'shut up, baldrick. be quiet while your betters speak.'

'yes do put a plug in it you oaf, some of us are trying to think out here!'

more tryin' than thinkin', thought the figure. but he didn't say anything out loud. baldrick nobbsson had spent 11 years as squire and occasional salami (a kind of large sausage, best enjoyed in thin slivers between two slices of white bread) for sirs ponce-a-lot and havalad and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. and when, indeed, to keep it open. his masters' training had been quite thorough in matters of... etiquette.

the trio rode - or in one case, shuffled - down the hillside towards what was left of the little encampment. the air reeked of burned tents, blood, and excrement. tatters of bunting and gay flags fluttered as if in mocking welcome.

the trio noticed little of this, of course. their attention was focused on the maypole. and what was on it. and around it.

impaled on the maypole, his mouth agape in a final scream of agony, a dead man. all around, stakes set in the ground with men impaled on them. the unfortunate victims had been -

'buggered. i'll be buggered.' said sir ponce-a-lot.

'straight up to heaven,' said sir havalad.

'puts me in mind of them shish kabobs,' said baldrick.

the only sounds as they rode through the forest of shafts were their horses, and the occasional raven that flapped out of their way, having gorged on the victims' eyeballs. they called names in the forlorn hope of receiving an answer. there was none.

a final search of the ruined tents confirmed their worst fears -

'they're... all accounted for, ponce-a-lot,' mumbled havalad.

'are you... yes, it must be so. it is finished.'

sir ponce-a-lot looked around the camp one last time. 'and so it ends, baldrick.'

'looks like it didn't get much of a begun sire.'

'what i am talking about most insufferable and incorrigible baldrick...' sir ponce-a-lot sagged in his saddle. he took off his fearsome helm (with its upraised fist crest) and laid it on his pommel. his head sank to his chest. when he raised it again, his eyes and his voice were filled with tears.

'witness, baldrick, the end of an age. witness, and weep for its passing. after this very day's work, sir frederick arsgrabson of havalad and i, sir ronald poofington of ponce-a-lot are all that remain of the most glorious, ancient and excellent order of the equites ab satinum albero.'

'cor!'

'indeed, baldrick.'

'you mean... you mean... the knights in white satin have finally reached an end?'

'that is exactly what i mean, baldrick, that is exactly what i mean.'