Wilhem de Broc, OTC

Wilhem de Broc and Isabel Chamberlain, photo by Cateline la Broderesse
Wilhem de Broc and Isabel Chamberlain, photo by Cateline la Broderesse. As you can see, Lady Isabel knows something that Lord Wilhem doesn't yet.

To my frynde and faire jentylwoman, I recomende me unto yow, and thanke yow of your gyudenesse evermore shewed, and pray yow to contenew. I have resyvyd newes of yowr husband, Lord Wilham de Broc, a jentylman who has come to the attention of our most fierce lyon Kyng Gregor and his brave Queen Kiena.

Sondry and diverse persones have told tales of Lord Wilham and of his prowess and goodness seyn by all before hym over these many monthes, and I desire yow to hear them proclaimed.

When yew arrived from warm lands, they marvaylyd that Wilham had not borne the sword, for he comandyd it as thouh rehersyd. And saw they the sinister casueltes and consydered the sped of Wilhem and demeyd hym suche man as gode man shold be, of umble wyse, of whom dute and servyse are the most joye of erthely thynges.

He fyrst rode, as yow know, be yond to the Roses War, and ther spake a pace with men of arms. Witness seyde that he sholde take the sword up and procede to the list, and moor ovyr, that he shoulde cawse hym to take arms against brave men and knights and dukes and masters. He was entretyd to take hys myght up on thym, and many he did beste.

Thys prowess causyd hym a desyeryg place with beltless broders, and at the mudthaw he fought with them and many he did beste.

With serteynte wold he take the Pennsic field with the frendys sent hym, and broders and squires of dukes and knights and masters. For two summers he remembred hys brotheris at arms, and went to aplye the sword and hold shield against the shrewyd dragons and theyr kin.  And many he did beste.

For when hys hand hys not set to carve that wood which he lykes, and which all who see these thynges lyke, hit hath been set to sword wich hath carved with entent upon all fields, and hath troblyd soor all foe touched by his blade.

Persones seyd he shuld have his honors, and enquered after the solisitors and Kingges men, and sendeth letters and speke of his desir to serve the East, and of his long travels this wey and that wey with Pembridge kynnesmen to fight, and of his desir to master the sword and grete sword, and his corage in all dealyngs, and protection of the land from any thretis before hit, as is hys ryght as a yeoman.

And furthermore I understond that upon inquisicyon to the members of the august Order of the Tygers Combatant, it hath been agryed by Kyng Gregor and Queen Kiena that this be fynyshed hastyly for they desyred Wilhem to be named as broder to them all, and it was agreid that theye wold make a bond of hym to the Order of the Tygers Combatant upon this feast day of St. Dominator of Brescia, for Wilhem ys lyke a full trewe, harty frende to the kingdom and all gode persones, who we are wele favored with.

And so here we see this gift gret that the Kyng and Queen should geve hym, in ryght bothe in law and in concience, whereby now on feythe as moche as the maner is worth, on this day of the Crown Tournament of the East, which is the fifth day of the monthe of November, anno sociatatis XVI, in their Barony of Bergental, to induct Lord Wilhem de Broc into the Order of the Tygers Combattant, and remitt thys day to youre remembraynce.

My counseill hath told me I may sette a letter that yor may have word of this. And may oure blessed Lord ever preserve you and Wilhem, and be your governour and defender.  All this is so endorcyd by the signgatures of golden Kynge Gregor and radient Queen Kiena which bless this page, having been witnessed by the clarke and herald and all assembled in the Court this grete day.

Written in the style of the Paston letters, which are those from a family collected between 1422 and 1509, with Wilhem’s lady, Isabel as the person to whom the letter is addressed, with him as the subject. You can also read many of the original letters which are online. You may read them here. The modern English “translation” is below.

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

To my friend and fair gentlewoman, I recommend me unto you, and thank you of your guidance evermore showed, and pray you to continue. I have received news of your husband Lord Wilham de Broc, a gentleman who has come to the attention of our most fierce lyon, King Gregor and his brave Queen Kiena.

Sundry and diverse persons have told tales of Lord Wilham and of his prowess and goodness seen by all before him over these many months, and I desire you to hear them proclaimed.

When you arrived from warm lands, they marveled that Wilhem had not borne the sword for he commanded it as though rehearsed. And saw they the sinister casualties and considered the speed of Wilhelm and deemed him such man as good man should be, of humble ways, of whom duty and service are the most joy of earthly things.

He first rode, as you know, beyond to the Roses War, and there spake a pace with men of arms. Witnesses said that he should take the sword up and proceed to the list, and more over, that he should cause him to take arms against brave men and knights and dukes. He was entered to take his might upon them, and many he did best.

This prowess caused him a deserving place with beltless brothers, and at the mudthaw he fought with them, and many he did best.

With certainty would he take the Pennsic field with the friends sent him, and brothers and squires of dukes and knights and masters. For two summers he remembered his brothers at arms and went to apply the sword and hold shield against the shrewd dragons and their kin. And many did he best.

For when his hand is not set to carve that wood which he likes, and which all who see these things like, it hath been set to sword which hath carved with intent upon all fields, and hath troubled sore all foe touched by his blade.

Persons said he should have his honors, and inquired after the solicitors and king’s men, and senteth letters and spake of his desire to serve the East, and of his long travels this way and that way with Pembridge kinsmen to fight, and of his desire to master the sword and great sword, and his courage in all dealings and protection of the land from any threats before it, as is his right as a yeoman.

And furthermore, I understand that upon inquisition to the members of the august Order of the Tygers Combatant, it hath been agreed by King Gregor and Queen Kiena that this be finished hastily for they desired Wilhem to be named as brother to them all, and it was agreed that they would make a bond of him to the Order of the Tygers Combatant upon this feast day of St. Dominator of Brescia, for Wilhem is like a full, true, hearty friend to the kingdom and all good persons, who we are well favored with.

And so here we see this gift great that the King and Queen should give him, in right both in law and in conscience, whereby now on faith as much as the manner is worth, on this day of the Crown Tournament of the East, which is the fifth day of the month of November, anno sociatatis XVI, in their Barony of Bergental, to induct Lord Wilhem de Broc into the Order of the Tygers Combatant, and remit this day to your remembrance.

My counsel hath told me I may set a letter that you may have word of this. And may our blessed Lord ever preserve you and Wilhem and be your governor and defender. All this is so endorsed by the signatures of golden King Gregor and radiant Queen Kiena which bless this page, having been witnessed by the clerk and herald and all assembled in the Court this great day.

AoA – Lucie Lovegood

If fortune has been kind than you have met
This lady from the lovely English sea
Whose graces must serve as perfect key
As none have failed to love this sweet soubrette.

When she is near all worldly things forget.
She seems to solve all ills so gracefully
Perhaps it is how she attends to thee,
Her virtues maketh people not to fret.

Her pleasant smile at gate thou may have seen.
Perhaps you heard her laugh behind a shield,
Or on the path of errands she has run.
O what to do with worker so serene,
Who set on any task will just not yield?

Ah, here is notion for this vibrant one!
From this day forth shall Lady be her name!
Thought bold King Gregor and Queen Kiena bright,
And swift decided, unto our delight,
One Lady Lucie Lovegood we would claim!

In AS forty-six thusly ordained,
At Tournament for Eastern Crown, this rite,
Beneath the fifth day’s cold November light,
In Bergental, her ladyship attains.

 

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