Both scrolls are based on the Byzantine Chant to St. Cyril (feast day June 19th) & St. Athanasios (feast day May 2). They were chanted/sung at the Court of King Lucan VIII at Vinland Raids in the Barony of Smoking Rock, AS46.
You became radiant
by your magnificent deeds,
meeting every mark
and becoming conquering champion.
Your skill has enriched all
and the East became greatly glorified.
You are found most worthy by our Queen
who this day now calls you Champion.
Master Krakken Gnashbone, thus it is the will of resplendent Jana Regina that you are named Queen’s Champion of Archery, this 18th day of June, AS XLVI in the Barony of Smoking Rocks.
King’s Archery Champion Scroll
As swift flies the arrow
you are now surely known
by your noble flights,
thus catching the attention of our King.
With your gifts set for the East
you bring great honor and glory to her.
You have worthily met every task
and are now this day called Champion.
Lord Kusunoki Yoshimoto, thus it is the will of ever-bold Lucan Rex that you are named King’s Champion of Archery, this 18th day of June, AS XLVI in the Barony of Smoking Rocks.
Original Text
You became radiant
by your orthodox deeds
quelling all heresy
and becoming conquering champions.
Your piety enriched all
and the church became greatly beautified
You have worthily found Christ our God
who by your prayers grants all great mercy.
I used the following site: http://chant.hchc.edu/ to learn the chants. The tunes and lyric are based on the women’s version in English of the chants for the feast day of Saints Athanasius and Cyril, whose feast day was closest to the event.
For all my dear ones who can’t bear to hear me give them all that is their due in lone, long and spectacular title, here is “The Brigantia’s Lament.” No actual heralds were harmed in the making of this song.
The Brigantia herald, he came into court
at their majesties pleasure, I can report.
They gave him a quest
which they thought he’d do best,
but alas the poor herald could not support!
They said, “Stack up the titles, they’re getting quite long.
When we call folk to court it’s exhausting the throng!
So stack up the titles in neat little piles…
And you’ll have them rejoicing and dancing in aisles.”
The herald turned yellow and then slightly green
He said “what you ask I find quite obscene,
it’s against all tradition…
my personal mission…”
And he then fled the Presence to find a latrine.
Regaining composure the herald returned,
He begged and he pleaded but still he was spurned
“I shall if you force it
but will not endorse it”
And they nodded quite sternly while he looked concerned.
They said, “Stack up the titles, they’re getting quite long.
When we call folk to court it’s exhausting the throng!
So stack up the titles in neat little piles…
And you’ll have them rejoicing and dancing in aisles.”
When court finally started the herald looked round
The populace gathered, not making a sound
He puffed out his chest,
With his conscience he wrest,
And then mumbled and muttered and stared at the ground…
“Would the Master Sir Baron Gerald of Kent
Come to the throne, there now be a good gent,”
He called out in style
While holding back bile
As inwardly he overcame his torment.
They said, “Stack up the titles, they’re getting quite long.
When we call folk to court it’s exhausting the throng!
So stack up the titles in neat little piles…
And you’ll have them rejoicing and dancing in aisles.”
“Now The Honorable Baroness Mistress Melyne…”
He called to the crowd, now surprising a grin
“And Duke Master Thor,
Come on ashore!”
Bellowed he unto the Royals’ chagrin.
“Your Excellency Sir Viscount Roland, here!
Yes, come to the front, right on the top tier,
There’s bling you might guess,
For sure that’s a yes!
On this thrilling and novel heraldic frontier!”
They said, “Stack up the titles, they’re getting quite long.
When we call folk to court it’s exhausting the throng!
So stack up the titles in neat little piles…
And you’ll have them rejoicing and dancing in aisles.”
Yes, court was exciting, and all did agree.
I sat all the way through each and every decree!
But when it was ended
The approach was amended
And the Brigantia herald – he fainted with glee.
So I offer these words to those taken aback,
If you wish to sound noble, and not like a hack
For it’s quite cavalier
And isn’t too clear…
Best to just use one title, and never to stack!
When you stack up the titles, although they’re quite long, If you call folk to court it confuses he throng! Do not stack up the titles in neat little piles… You’ll have heralds rejoicing and dancing in aisles. Do not stack up the titles in neat little piles… You’ll have heralds rejoicing and dancing in aisles.
I am of the North. My soul sings in the Winter Wind. My blade was quenched in the snow. No soft Southern Sun warmed my crib. War is coming. The Northern Banners Raise high. My Brothers gather, our weapons gleaming in the Sun. And all, all gathered, say the same thing. “I am of the North.” (Master Angus Pembridge)
* * * * * *
If you would find honor look toward Polaris. War it is coming; our banners raise high. As Brothers we gather, our weapons gleaming And all who are gathered, say the same thing. “I am of the North”
My soul sings in the Winter Wind.
It tears through the mountains
as we through the foe.
The winter wind calls
and my brothers come join her
she carries their voices where we are to go.
If you would find honor look toward Polaris…
No soft Southern Sun warmed my crib.
I was born in a blizzard,
first steps on the frost.
My first lullaby
was a warsong of glory
and the snapping of banners by the wind tossed.
If you would find honor look toward Polaris…
My blade was quenched deep in snow.
Brought from the fire
it blazed red as sun.
Bitterly plunged into
winter’s cold scabbard
it craves the blood that o’re it shall run.
If you would find honor look toward Polaris…
War is upon us, our banners rise.
Bear up your weapons,
hear the wind call.
We move toward the warm lands
where together we conquer,
“I am of the North” sing each and all.
A knight went a riding on the finest of days
never to think of fate’s fickle ways.
He sang a sweet song as he rode through the wood
the day had portents of nothing but good.
But deep in the forest came a scent on the breeze
of fire and danger, unseen through the trees.
It came from village, his castle, his keep
where he had just that morn left his lady asleep.
He turned round his charger and blew loud the horn.
He tore ore the thickets and jumped ore the thorn.
He near broke his mount with his spurs in her side
to beat the flames like thunder he’d ride
Beneath the bright sky of impossible blue
the sky was now colored an impossible hue.
The keep had been broken the great towers were down;
his squires were all dead and the place held no sound.
Heedless of all, he charged through the gate
until he found his lady he would not abate.
He found her struck mute by the sights she had seen
in the courtyard garden, grey o’re the green.
She wore fine silver ashes instead of a gown.
She wore broken windows in place of her crown.
She looked right through him as he lifted her high.
She did not once move, or utter a sigh.
The knight tried all the things that the stories do tell
from magical apples to the life-giving well.
The gifts she ignored and the glass pushed away,
for her madness kept in her the fear of that day.
She built a wide fortress inside of her heart
with stones o’re the gate, and no weakening art.
She dug it in deep, and moved below the earth
living as dead alone in that dark berth.
At last the brave man built o’re every door
and changed all the standards to gules from bright or.
He had given his oath to care for his wife,
and so planted a garden to surround her with life.
His lady did die in her fortress so cold.
His love could not reach her, no matter how bold.
He had done what he could, and is spotless of blame.
He mourned her with candles, and wept at the flame.
The wound still aches hotly when the smoke fills the air,
though nothing is burning, he senses it there.
When he hears the sweet tune he was singing that day
in spite of himself, he is carried away.
Oh would I could bring him some succor and peace,
A balm or a salve that could make his pain cease.
Do not succumb to your dear lady’s fate,
For a garden grows richly outside your estate.
I cannot bring back the castle or rebuild his keep
I have only my voice to lullay him to sleep.
But I will protect him, his sorrows allay
So rest, sweet knight, slumber and dream of the day.
The War of the Roses in Concordia is a three-day event in beautiful upstate New York. We were hosted at the camp of Baron Master Angus Pembridge, at Pembridge Manor. One of the best parts of the camp was the large fire box Angus had built, raised and made of wood, with a bottom consisting of 300lbs of masonry sand. While a lot of great things happened at the event, this post is just about the food and how we cooked it.
Dinner Saturday: Marigold, a lovely but (fatally) inappropriate farm cow, was the guest of honor. Cooked in a large cast iron pan over a hot-coal fire by Angus as Katheryn, who actually asked Sir Walter Raleigh how to cook the new world vegetable BEFORE assuming we boil the tops, took the tuberous roots from the potatoes and boiled them to good effect.
Breakfast Sunday: fresh farm eggs and handmade home-cured bacon. Eggs cooked in the standard fashion, but the bacon was fried over hot coals in a large cast-iron pan. After eating that bacon, all other bacon in the world is almost an insult to it. We reserved the grease, which would be important for everything else!
Lunch Sunday: Drew and I prepared Saturday’s lunch, which was onion cooked in bacon fat, and then we added two jars of moose meat which had been cooked with onion and canned (by Drew’s mother) after he got a moose a while back. To this mix we added a generous pour of red wine, some black pepper and salt and what cooked potatoes had lasted from the night before. We also made ployes, a French-Acadian buckwheat and wheat pancake, which are traditionally served with stews. We had maple syrup for dipping them as well, so they were both the starch for the meal and a light desert.
Dinner Sunday: Making this dinner was one of the best SCA experiences I have ever had. The end result was Coneys Stewed with Wine and Herbes de Provence and Ginger Bourbon Coney, fresh green beans, and potatoes pan fried with onions and rosemary.
Angus provided three rabbits, which had been skinned and dressed, to a degree. We chopped them (one by Angus, one by my own hand, and the third by Isabel Chamberlaine) into large pieces (about 6 pieces per rabbit) for cooking, which was entirely over the Pembridge Pit. Our recipes are as follows, or are at least as good as I can remember them, because it was a fury of cookery going on:
Coneys Stewed with Wine and Herbes de Provence
2 onions, chopped small and sauteed to clear in bacon grease
1/4 cup maple syrup (roughly) added to onions
pepper and salt added to the onions
2 rabbits, cut to fit in the pot
2 cup Cotes du Rhone (or other red wine, we picked what tasted “right” from what was in stock at camp, a terrible process, of course….)
2-3 tbs blend of Herbes de Provence (ours included generous lavender…)
some water as needed
We let it boil merrily over the fire for a couple of hours, periodically opening the pot to exclaim and congratulate ourselves on how lovely it smelled. We took all the rabbit out at one point to shift the top pieces and bottom pieces so everything would cook at about the same rate.
The resulting dish was intensely fragrant, causing a ruckus every time we opened the cauldron. The meat was sweet, tender, and succulent. The broth was a beautiful purple, appropriate for the lavender influence of the herbes de Provence. Everyone who tried this dish was greatly impressed with its flavor, and it is a true pity there was no way to make stew dumplings for it, because they would have been spectacular. (We boiled it again the next morning for lunch, and it was, remarkably, even better the next day!)
Ginger Bourbon Coney in Dutch Oven
1 onion clarified in bacon grease
a generous pour of Maker’s Mark Bourbon (add just when the onions are almost dry…)
1 rabbit, cut into about 6 pieces
salt, pepper, powdered ginger (to taste / by instinct)
a little water as needed
We heated the pan and onions up well, and there was a good amount of bacon grease added to this dish. The bourbon caramelized the onions and the ginger gave the little flavor beyond pepper and salt that it needed. As there was less liquid, the rabbit also got a caramel flavor and the skin seared where it touched the pan, which was close to low, hot coals. The rabbit was turned half-way through the cooking, and water was added, which brought up a sizzling cloud of fragrant steam, which made us dance with anticipation. The taste of this was less intense than the other dish, but I liked it a little better, maybe because of the sweetness of the bourbon and onions.
Monday Morning: Plain, slender, civilian bacon cooked on the cast iron skillet over the fire; French toast with potato bread and farm eggs, with maple and black pepper peaches on top (for those patient enough to wait), and fluffy scrambled eggs with the remainder of the eggs. We used up a really good amount of food that morning, making the packing up a little better.
Monday Leaving Lunch: My last taste of the War of the Roses was of the Coneys Stewed with Wine and Herbes de Provence, which tasted even better after lying in the stew all night and being boiled up again. It was like a sweet, sweet kiss of farewell to Pembridge Manor, and I savored the last moments before the long road back to home and daily life….
