Crown Tourney List Rules List – in Gregorian Form

When the King calls, one must be always ready with an answer.

I had long ago decided, even before becoming the King’s champion, that I would be ready any time that I was asked to perform. (Thank you Coxcomb Academy!) That I would always have something up my sleeve, and that I would not refuse an opportunity or request when given one, no matter how off-guard, awkward, or surprised I might be. I have had the dubious excellent fortune to have served fine Kings who have given me ample opportunity to test my own promise to myself.

King Lucan called on me to perform without notice, quite regularly, starting with his Coronation, and so I always for him had something at the ready, or at least a thought in mind should he call upon me to serve. King Gregor has proven a canny and witty challenger and has nearly got me off my guard, especially at the fall Crown Tournament, when the above video was recorded, when he asked, in the middle of the reading of the list rules, that I sing them instead.

I have always thought that it would be a hoot to read the list rules, as a personal challenge, to see if people would listen to them, for they are indeed rote and dry.  So someone put a bug in the Brigantia Herald’s ear and I got to read them! King Gregor loomed over my shoulder as I read the first rule, and then stopped me, and, to my astonishment, asked that I sing them instead. I thought I’d had an auditory hallucination, but no, he had indeed asked me to sing them. Thankfully I didn’t stand there as slack-jawed as I felt apparently, and I replied, “Ah, well then, Your Majesty, would Gregorian suffice?” “Yes, that will do,” said His Majesty.

And so, deeply thankful for all those years as church cantor, I sang the rules of the list (with a few theatrics added). I was grateful to see that the lovely Mistress Kayeligh McWhyte had taken video of the thing as it happened, because I know it happened so quickly I scarcely remembered it. The choral “Amen” at the end just sealed it perfectly.

It will remain one of the most memorable performances I have ever had in the SCA, and the laughter of the crowd will be carried with me for many, many of the darkening days of winter. To add to the sweetness of this, Dutchess Aikaterine and Countess Althea gave me their token at the court, when the Ladies of the Rose recognize deeds they witnessed during the day. They are most often given to combatants, and so it was a great surprise to hear Althea’s musical voice speaking of the start of the day and the entertainment and cheer which the list rules brought. I am incredibly touched by that tiny golden rose, and grateful to King Gregor for giving me such an opportunity to entertain and amuse.

Below are the rules of the list, which were read and sung at Crown. I should have quizzed people later to see if they remembered them! For some reason, “No projectile weapons” is the one that sticks in my mind.

The Rules of the Lists are reprinted from Appendix B of the Corpora of the SCA.

1. Each fighter, recognizing the possibilities of physical injury to him or herself in such combat, shall assume unto himself or herself all risk and liability for harm suffered by means of such combat. No fighter shall engage in combat unless and until he or she has inspected the field of combat and satisfied himself or herself that it is suitable for combat. Other participants shall likewise recognize the risks involved in their presence on or near the field of combat, and shall assume unto themselves the liabilities thereof.

2. No person shall participate in Combat-Related Activities (including armored combat, period fencing, combat archery, scouting, and banner bearing in combat) outside of formal training sessions unless he or she shall have been properly authorized under Society and Kingdom procedures.

3. All combatants must be presented to, and be acceptable to, the Sovereign or his or her representative.

4. All combatants shall adhere to the appropriate armor and weapons standards of the Society, and to any additional standards of the Kingdom in which the event takes place. The Sovereign may waive the additional Kingdom standards.

5. The Sovereign or the Marshallate may bar any weapon or armor from use upon the field of combat. Should a warranted Marshal bar any weapon or armor, an appeal may be made to the Sovereign to allow the weapon or armor.

6. Combatants shall behave in a knightly and chivalrous manner, and shall fight according to the appropriate Society and Kingdom Conventions of Combat.

7. No one may be required to participate in Combat-Related Activities. Any combatant may, without dishonor or penalty, reject any challenge without specifying a reason. A fight in a tournament lists is not to be considered a challenge, and therefore may not be declined or rejected without forfeiting the bout.

8. Fighting with real weapons, whether fast or slow, is strictly forbidden at any Society event. This rule does not consider approved weaponry which meets the Society and Kingdom standards for traditional Society combat and/or Society period rapier combat, used in the context of mutual sport, to be real weaponry.

9. No projectile weapons shall be allowed and no weapons shall be thrown within the Lists of a tournament. The use of approved projectile weapons for melee, war, or combat archery shall conform to the appropriate Society and Kingdom Conventions of Combat.

Thus ends the Rules of the Lists. Amen.

There Was a Bard in London Town

…OR the Brutal Entertainment of Murdering a Bard in a Group Effort.**

BY Aneleda,  Aoife, Toki, Miriam, Leo, Alan, Ian, Meredith and Jean.

There was a bard in London town
who in her jest ticked off the Crown
o’re the square they hung her upside down
from atop the Tow’r of London.

A priest was called to give the rites;
they held him ore’ her by his tights
There he became afraid of heights
There on the Tow’r o’ London.

The priest was hauled back up the wall
But could ever hear the singing call
That echoed off each stoney wall
Within the Tow’r o’ London.

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

Soon came the carrion birds so black
They sat upon her hanging back
And planned to have a little snack
Utop the Tow’r o’ London.

One crow said, “Brothers, here’s a treat!
Our friend—the bard is made of meat.
Her words offend, but she tastes sweet,
here atop the Tow’r of London.”

They left her chords alone, the crows,
Picking bits off of her toes
And so the Bard’s high voice it rose
From atop the Tow’r of London.”

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

The bard could not her jesting cease
“Look at how they flock like geese
“to watch me go to final peace
“Atop the Tow’r o’ London.”

The birds they dined upon her eyes
they were not troubled by her sighs
The crowds below could watch her die
from atop the Tow’r o’ London.

The Bard made rhymes while crows did peck
a bob-and-wheel ‘bout bleeding neck.
“I could complain, but what the heck!
I’m atop the Tow’r o’ London.”

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

…“All you folk out in the crowd
“Think you not that I am proud?
“To make my best and final bow’d
Atop the Tow’r o’ London.

Ere she become a love-ed clown
the sheriff tried to take her down
but was hit with fruit throughout the town
seen from the Tow’r o’ London.

…They sent the executioner
to take the curly head from her
but alas, he was a saboteur
atop the Tow’r o’ London.

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

The sabateur was stern and hard,
but he took a shine to the curly bard.
(Did I say that sabateur was hard?)
atop the Tow’r o’ London.

The Knight from Thanet, with regret,
was sent to cease the red-haired threat
but with remorse was he was beset
atop the Tow’r o’ London.

A count was sent, with a sharpened knife
to end her song, and take her life.
Instead her took her, like a wife.
atop the Tow’r o’ London.

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

no sounds now issued from her throat
but her soul was not yet in charon’s boat
though her body tossed down to the moat
from atop the Tow’r o’ London.

The bard could swim well – like a fish
she’s fled the moat with a great swish
and the count and she both got their wish
soaked ‘neath the Tow’r o’ London.

The bard, the count, they’re on their way
and rumoring is here to stay
The crows are now acting the play
Atop the Tow’r o’ London.

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

But a bard’s voice carries far and wide
While she searched for a place to hide
Her jest still echoed clear inside,
In walls and Tow’r o’ London.

At last the noisy bard was found
They killed her dead upon the ground,
but even dead she made a sound!
echo’d the Tow’r o’ London.

Lucan’s muse, though gone away,
Her bardic tales they still do play,
the legends trace is here to stay
Haunting the Tow’r o’ London.

To be a bard is rather hard
varitas et cantus
to bear the weight of truth and song
can get a girl in trouble-o.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

It kind of has its own melody, but Toki claims it scans to “16 Tons” pretty well too.

**So- I made a smart comment one day about what would happen if a hypothetical royal bard really ticked off the Royals. Then I mused a quatrain, and posted it on Facebook, and someone responded.  Then another person chimed in, and I realized that frankly, either this was really motivating bardic or a LOT of people want me dead!  I pledged to sing this in the road in front of our camp at 7pm War Tuesday at Pennsic, because I was too lowly to sing it IN camp. Anyway, I sang it. All 20+ verses. It’s been sung twice, once in the middle of Bytheway and once at the VDK encampment.

(The post that inspired this, ahem, brilliant idea is this: Plotting for Pennsic makes me think that I would have rocked at court intrigue. Except that I’m mostly transparent, and a lousy poker player. Ok, nevermind, I would totally have been beheaded or locked in the Tower of London. (Upside, there’d now be a singing ghost! What a tourist attraction!)

Leaves Red as Love

Listen to this song at: http://www.mbouchard.com/misc/leaves-red-as-love.mp3

There was once upon a time
I felt I was your princess.
You’d have charged through a battlefield
for a touch of my hand.

It was back when the trees were green
and the flowers were blooming wild,
and the smell of white roses
floated over the land.

True you never made promises
that the sea would not call you,
and you never swore to me
that you’d stay by my side.

But the way that you walked with me
under trees in the moonlight,
I was sure that where my heart was
yours would ever reside.

But the trees have turned red as my love
And the stars slumber over the clouds
I have waited for you to return to me
But I can’t find your face in the crowds…

I know the king is not hiring
since the war is now over long.
I have watched every ship come in
still with no word of you.

The cabin boys shake their heads
when I show them your portrait
as I stand with the salt wind in my hair
wondering what to do.

For the leaves have turned red as my love
And the stars slumber over the clouds
I have waited for you to return to me
But I can’t find your face in the crowds…

I am sure you’re no silkie rare
now returned to the ocean deep.
You’ve not turned to a raven black,
or suffered any such fate.

No, I think you’re just a man
who has left me here longing.
This princess will rescue herself
I suppose, rather than wait.

For the leaves have turned red as my love
And the stars slumber over the clouds
I have waited for you to return to me
But I can’t find your face in the crowds…

There was once upon a time
I felt I was your princess
You’d have charged through the battlefield
for a touch of my hand.

It was back when the trees were green
and the flowers were blooming wild
and the smell of white roses
floated over the land.

 

* * *    * * *    * * *    * * *

Today was such a grey, rainy day that the leaves looked red, but nearly brokenhearted. The rain wasn’t hard enough to actually matter, just enough to make you feel like you were waiting for nothing in particular to happen. And it also made me think of staring out of a window, watching for someone. Usually that ends in my head with someone coming home, but today, nobody came. Well, that’s not entirely true. This song came, and I’m glad I let the little melancholic, heartbroken thing in out of the rain.

The Warlord’s Treasure

http://www.mbouchard.com/misc/The-Warlords-Treasure.mp3

The warlord sits upon his throne
and looks down at his trophies fine
as spoils of ivory, gold and stone
by hall fire light do brightly shine

Music swells throughout his hall
laughter of men and women brave,
who though not vassal and not thrall
their devotion gladly gave.

A fine-wrought blade rests at his side,
A cup sits warming in his hand
He thinks on that which he loves best
A summer war – one battle grand.

Not two score of men had he
To take to fight a fearsome foe
which had defeated many times
and buried men where they must go.

From tattered men, companions made
he ruled them with both love and fear,
united in his iron hand
they became warriors o’re the year.

Decked in royal raiment bright
blessed by those whose love they knew
they marched as one upon the field,
toward brutal paths they would pursue.

The sun rose red that battle day
o’re the green it burned from high
for him they swore to take the soil
dauntless, stalwart doubt deny.

The horns and men raised up a call
The sides met in a crash of sound
their warcries could be heard for miles
their fighting shook the very ground.

The sun had not a minute moved
when all went silent, soft and still
the warlord’s men looked each around
their battle won through strength and will

Neglect, defeat they overcame –
this company had rallied strong:
They took that ground in Feral’s name
and used that name as triumph-song.

Well ensconced with kings and knights,
and beauteous folk who oft pass round
Among the treasures gathered near,
He favors visions of that ground.

The memories of these brothers brave
Upon green fields where they had vied
Above all victories he has known
None lights his eyes with greater pride.

The warlord sits upon his throne
and looks down at his trophies fine
as spoils of ivory, gold and stone
by hall fire light do brightly shine

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This song is a gift-song for Master Feral, who approached me after the Pennsic field battle to “beg a boon” which surprised (and delighted!) me. Of course, I would not refuse Master Feral, especially when he asked for a song for the Unbelted Champions Team, of which we already know I’m just a bit fond. There was already one song which had pushed a chorus on me, about the Captain and the team together and I really, really tried to make this song be just about *this* team. However, what I know of *this* team came down to a few things which stood out in conversations, over and over:

1 – They had been Chosen, and Chosen by Master Feral.
2 – They were being given the chance to build and rebuild in his trust that they would do it well, and by heaven’s name, they were not going to let him down
3 – Many look to him as a war-god and battle-father, and this battle was their devotion

I, meanwhile, just couldn’t separate this team from it’s Master. It was Master Feral’s pride in them that made this war worth winning, and his overt joy in their success which assured them that they had actually won the thing.

And so, when I thought on the words he had spoken about this team being his pride and that he had never been prouder of a victory than of this one, the song knew what it wanted to be, clearly, and all previous attempts were scrapped. It is a song of a warlord in his grand feast hall, watching from his seat on the dais as his company eats and plays dice and arm wrestles and tells no s*%t-there-I-was stories with mugs in hand. About the hall are all these trophies and spoils of war – statues, weapons, heads and horns of gigantic beasts of legend, suits of ornate armor, masses of gold and gem-encrusted objects of all sorts.  Near him sits a minstrel, quietly strumming a chord in the din. She notices that he does not pay heed to the golden things, or the prizes, but looks only with shining eyes at his warriors, remembering the day which he prizes above all those glittering things – one summer war, one battle grand.

So while it was a commission for Master Feral, it also became a song about him, and about what I think means most to the team – even more than victory – that their warlord saw their deed, and in it found joy.

-a

Called the Captain

A song for Cedric of Armorica and the Eastern Unbelted Champions of Pennsic XL.
To listen or download, go here:  http://mbouchard.com/misc/Called-the-Captain.mp3

Go, go, go – came the call from the captain
Go, go, go – take our land back, he cried.
We will go, go, go as we are commanded
And our rivals will go to a man or will die.

Thirty-five men marched into the sunlight;
Thirty-five men shouted their battle cry;
Thirty-five men knew that they had a story,
That they would be victors no man would deny.

Many years passed since this field had been theirs,
Now held by the dragon for many a day.
They to a man swore they would take it or perish
And write with their own blood the end of this play.

Go, go, go – came the call from the captain
Go, go, go – take our land back, he cried.
We will go, go, go as we are commanded
And our rivals will go to a man or will die.

Over the wintering they practiced and plotted.
One with a spear would fight one with a sword.
The pole met the axe, shattering both in darkness;
Weapons and men were thus stronger reforged.

Some were the fire and others the water.
Cedric did hammer, Feral stoked the flame.
Folded with each blow were patterns of tigers,
When summer emerged they were ready for fame.

Go, go, go – came the call from the captain
Go, go, go – take our land back, he cried.
We will go, go, go as we are commanded
And our rivals will go to a man or will die.

To the field brothers, came clarion call,
Into the dragon-men girded with red.
They stood but a heartbeat then took up the charge
And in less than one minute the dragons were dead.

A moment of silence – no sound but the birds…
Men fell to their knees and raised fists to the sky,
Then all pulled together with full understanding
That this battle was theirs indeed none could deny.

Go, go, go – came the call from the captain
Go, go, go – take our land back, he cried.
We will go, go, go as we are commanded
And our rivals will go to a man or will die.

Go, go, go – came the call from the captain
Go, go, go – take our land back, he cried.
We will go, go, go as we are commanded
And our rivals have gone to a man or have died.

 

**  **  **  **  **  **  **  ** **  **  **  **

I will confess to being kind of…fond, we’ll say, of the Pennsic XL Eastern Ubelted Champions. I will also admit that the battle at Pennsic XL was one of the most fantastic things I’ve witnessed on a field. Swift and brutal, it and the men who warred in it, were an inspiration. Cedric of Armorica was the Captain of this team, and this is a song about him and the team he led to victory. (And for Karl, I made sure it wasn’t too slow!)