Sam devoureth his porridge before he doth jump into the wagon and implore his old mare to plod towards the village institute of higher learning. There doth seem to be nary a place to hitch the wagon near the castle. “God dameth it” he mutters as he jumpeth off the woeful vehicle and doth forsake it in the middle of the road. “Thou must remaineth there.” he calleth to his steed.
He doth sprint into the monastery where his daily lessons are chanted by the monks. He slideth into the seat in the back beside the spoilt prince who doth always sleep through the lessons. Sam elbowed him in the ribs.
“Of what doth he speak?”
“I knoweth not.” the prince replied.
After class the prince ordereth Sam to relinquish the papers from his Medieval Devices of Torture book to sail in the moat. Sam doth need those to study but also doth need to keep his head attached to his shoulders. The prince sucketh and canst kiss my rump.
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