My Mom Beenu Versus Lovkesh

The French-Flemish border has always been a contentious area of Europe, ever changing hands between the two countries during their long and bloody war. For a while, it seemed like the French were gaining ground, but in the end, they were beaten back by a huge coalition of Swiss, Dutch and German soldiers.

But even after that great victory, the land was still ruined, nothing but fields turned to dust, broken roads and bridges and burned villages.

I had been sent out from Paris to evaluate the state of the land and find out what would be required to make it livable again. I had not expected much when I arrived in an old town to find that it was crawling with Englishmen.

"What are you doing here?" I asked them. "The French army will be arriving any day now."

"Oh we know," said one of them. "We just wanted to make sure you know about this." He pointed to a note he had written for me.

"What does it say?" I asked him. The man smiled at me and said: "It says 'We're going to kill you tonight.' We'll just leave this right here where you can find it." With that he walked off with his companions, leaving me standing there holding the note they had left behind.

I looked around at my small group of assistants; they had all heard the threat. We decided that we should return to Paris immediately so we could avoid being killed by these men who followed some god named Wotan or something like that. But before we could depart, our carriage broke down, forcing us to spend the night in a farmhouse near our village. That night, we were attacked in our sleep by Englishmen who shot flaming arrows into our house through the windows and set it ablaze. Luckily none of us were hurt too badly - thank goodness for those fire resistant robes we have! - but we were forced to flee into the night on foot amidst another volley of flaming arrows. We ran until dawn's light began to shine ahead of us and then hid in a nearby field while they searched for us on horseback.

In the morning, I sent one of our men to walk back towards the burning house with an old shirt tied around his head so that he looked injured. When he reached their camp, he pretended that he was actually one of them and recounted how we had been killed by bandits on our way back to Paris. He convinced them that we must have hidden our bodies somewhere nearby so that they could not be found before we were buried properly. They decided not to waste another night there waiting for us and instead rode off towards Calais where they came from originally instead of following us further.