In This Fiefdom We Are Family, Except Those of You Whom I Sired

'Tis pretty clear that none of thee are my bæsterds

(Wikimedia Commons)

To the commoners of this, my fief,

When I go about the manor, riding upon my stallion or perhaps borne by a half dozen of your more nubile and less clothed citizens, I see nothing if not harmony. You toil under the ever-present gaze of the sun just as I do under the ever-present gaze of His Majesty. That is why I feel that we share something greater than just a serf-vassal arrangement. 

At some point, even family must turn up for one another. I provide you with land upon which to ply your trade, disgusting as it may be. Yea, verily, I also provide you with protection from bandits, neighboring lords, and small Vikings. In return, you provide the manor and thus your King with hearty bodies. Some, alack and alas, are heartier than others, ho ho. 

But let me get right down to iron balls. It should be known, my dear family, that as a gentleperson, I am equipped with a noble codwilliam and gentle turnips. Even if I were to defrock and leap into a pile of ripened maidens like a sex-mad stoat, nothing would issue forth save amusement.  

Does the best seed grow on rocky ground? I am reliably informed that it does not. (I would never touch either.) Yet the point remains. My noble hangings-down even when firm and bowed as a barrel stave, could never result in a bastard. My seed, even if spilled, and your furrows, even if be-doodled, are no match. 

Let that put the matters to rest. To be on the safe side, should anyone spot a commoner slouching about the muck pens who bears resemblance to me, that person should be pelted with rocks, driven away, and stricken utterly from the mind. 

Conversely, should you observe one of your number who is well-shaped, such that one might have thoughts of persnoodling their comelydiddles, send them to the manor house forthwith. We can protect them, and we always need fresh goslings. 

The ones we have keep turning up pregnosticated. 

Yours in familial fiefdom,

Lord Humphrey Von Handsgrabby
A.K.A. Humphrey the Chaste

Blacksmith's Apprentice's Journeyman Apprentice Jim Hodgson is a comedy writer and has been for a long time. Read more of his writing at:

Seriously, thou shouldst check out Jim’s Substack. And this story, by thine truly.

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And in case thou wast looking to employ more appropriate language around thy fief: