The Ballad of El
Introduction
For the 2008 Bardic Championships, the theme was “Heroes of the Empire,” which was to be about the heroes of the East Kingdom. After some thought, I decided to present The Raven's Question, and then this story. Strategically, my plan was simple: I didn't care if I won or lost, since the fun is in the activity. But if I did win, I wanted there to be no questions about who I was and how I intended to behave. In particular, I wanted it known that I would question authority (hence the Raven's Question) and revered those who spoke unpleasant, albeit necessary, truths (hence this story).
I thought that between the far superior performance abilities of my competitors and the controversial nature of my own choices, there was no chance of me getting into the finals. Much to my surprise, I made it into the third round, and had to think quickly about what to do next. I ended up doing a rather poor rendition of The Cook's Lament, and did not make it into the next round.
The Story
Good gentles, ask yourself this: Why should the bards glorify the deeds of others? Is it so they may be rewarded with silver and gold? Well—yes. A bard must eat, after all. But there is also food for the spirit, and there is no greater joy than hearing that one has inspired someone to be greater than who they thought possible.
Towards this end there are two paths. The first, oft-taken, is to present the great deeds as an ideal to stand for all time, so that all who hear of them may emulate them. But of equal importance is to present the great mistakes, as something to be avoided.
For example, the knights of France were nourished on a steady diet of the tales of the paladins, the companions of Charlemagne, who won victory despite treachery and great numbers of their enemies. They would have done well to learn the tale of Courtrai, where French knights faced the tradesmen of Flanders—weavers, dyers, and lawyers—and charged, to become mired in the mud and die by the thousand. If they had learned this story, they might not have died in the mud of Crecy, or the mud of Nicopolis, or the mud of Agincourt.
Of course, any French bard telling such a tale would probably not be rewarded by silver and gold. Fortunately, we have tale to tell of both a great error to be avoided, and a great act of heroism. This is a story about a bard, a prince, two kings, a duke, and a knight: three lives in all, intertwined thusly...
Many years ago there lived a young lad, the son of a yeoman farmer of no great wealth. This lad was neither strong, nor quick, nor keen-sighted, so the path of the warrior was not for him. But he had mind and voice, and so he sought the bardic path, hoping to gain favor of some notable. Soon he gained skill with song, sonnet and story, and grew rich in spirit and reputation, while remaining poor in silver and gold.
Word of his reputation soon reached the prince, who invited him to tell a story or provide some other diversion for those attending his upcoming coronation. The bard considered how best to please the prince and thereby gain favor (and perhaps royal patronage, some gold, a minor title, and suchlike). In the end, he settled on a pleasant story of the antics of Zeus and his paramours.
Now it happened that shortly before the coronation was to occur, a terrible revelation was made about one of the prince's predecessors. This man, a knight who became king and then a duke, though he held the titles and honors of chivalry, he was no paragon of virtue. Rather he was a loathsome and repulsive creature who, some years after he had become a duke, sojourned to a foreign land, became involved in a heinous crime: the murder of a woman and her young child. Even here, his mean condition was evident, for he served merely as base born lackey, holding the coat of the actual murderer. For this vile crime he was rightly stripped of title and rank, banished for life from these lands, and imprisoned in the southern countries, soon to die in wretched obscurity.
When the young prince heard this, he was horrified, and ordered the heralds to strike the name of this Herod, this childslayer, from the list of kings, so that the stain of innocent blood would not dishonor the throne. The heralds agreed, for who were they to deny the prince?
When the bard heard this, he too was horrified—but for a different reason. He knew that honor goes beyond surface appearances, and that this vile crime would soon be rediscovered, howsoever many years hence. And he knew that when that day came, the throne would be doubly besmirched, first by the murder, and then by the attempt to conceal it.
What could the Bard do? Say nothing, and the prince would surely reward his skill with gold and honors. Or demand that the truth, however unpleasant, be spoken—and face the wrath of a king denied.
Came the day of the coronation, and as is the custom, the reading of the names of the kings of the East. As instructed, the heralds omitted the name of the childslayer, and the prince became the king. After the list was read, the Bard stood up, and before the king and court, nobles, and spectators, he reminded all of the name of the banished king.
Absolute silence filled the hall. Fury filled the face of the king, and he lifted his hand, as if to call the guard to strike down Bard. Sensing that his next words might be his last, he chose them carefully. “Our grief is great and rightly so, for this once king has shamed us all. But sin concealed is sin compounded. Let the cursed name remind us all: beware the thieves of life and innocence.”
The king lowered his hand, and after a pause spoke. “The Bard speaks truly. Restore the cursed name to the list of kings.” Then he turned to the Bard. “You have great courage, and considerable skill. These will take you far. Very, very far...” The bard, understanding the king's meaning, took his leave. And in time he became one of the most beloved bards of the lands, rich in reputation and honor—though he remained rather poor in silver and gold.
Take heed, then, of this story. The prince erred by attempting to conceal history, for this only brought to light the very events he wished hidden. The bard acted heroically, by insisting that the truth be spoken whatever the cost may be. And the king acted courageously, for does it not show great strength of spirit to admit one's mistakes?
Notes
This is essentially the first story I wrote for the SCA. When I showed an original version to my wife Jacqui/Lucrezia, she pointed out a major flaw: in the original version, the bard doesn't appear until the last paragraph! Since the bard is the nominal hero, it is important that he show up early. This also had the desirable effect of tripling the length of the story (otherwise, the introduction would have been longer than the story itself).
From a performance standpoint, one of the important features of this story is what I sometimes call the emotional roller coaster. The introduction is light and, to some extent, funny: yes, of course we do this for silver and gold; no sense being a starving artist. Ha, ha, look at those dumb French knights, can't they figure out that charging into a muddy field is a bad idea? But (again, at Jacqui's suggestion) I brought it down: Agincourt was a terrible waste. Then it's back to the funny bits: six titles, but only three persons. It continues light and airy until the murder, and if that doesn't snap you back down, nothing will. The story continues until the dramatic declamation and the bard's final speech, which is designed to get an emotional reaction. And then there's the “far, far away” punchline: everyone needs a laugh, so this gives them the opportunity. (As an example of someone with actual talent, consider Shakespeare: Hamlet, MacBeth, and others, though they are dark tragedies, also have their comic bits)
I fully expected to receive some negative feedback, as the events described relate to what I hope will be the darkest moments in the history of the SCA. However, I feel that one of the responsibilities of being a laurel is to take measured risks. If I should go too far and get censured...it won't hurt me very much, and others will know the bounds of good taste etc. If I don't get censured, it encourages others to experiment (“Gee, if William can do it, I, who have some actual talent, can do it as well...”). By making it into the final rounds despite the two controversial pieces, I hope others will be encouraged to take chances.
I was pleasantly surprised at the number of people who commended me afterwards, telling me they were happy that someone told the story, however unpleasant and uncomfortable it might be.
At Courtrai in 1306, the French attempted to put down an uprising in Flanders. They charged at a Flemish army composed largely of tradesmen armed with a goedendag (a six-foot club with a spike on the end) and became mired in the mud. At the end of the battle, 500 pairs of golden spurs were recovered, so the battle of Courtrai is often known as the Battle of the Golden Spurs.
At Nicopolis in 1396, the French knights fought the Turks. Strictly speaking, there was no mud, but the battle was another example of the heroic disregard of elementary tactics. The French knights came to a point made impassable by the placing of stakes; they dismounted and charged uphill against a fortified Turkish position.
For the 2008 Bardic championships, I had intended to present the tale of Zeus and Callisto, from Metamorphoses. But about two weeks before the competition, I realized it had a theme, and that my story had nothing to do with the theme. After some thought, I decided to tell this story.
Suffice it to say that the person in question (Duke Aonghais, MKA Paul Serio) drove the getaway car. We sincerely hope that this will remain the blackest event in the history of the SCA. The final ruling within the SCA was that his bestowed honors (in particular, his knighthood) were forfeit, but his earned honors (his tenure as king and his ducal title) could not be.
Lucan, to be precise.
The bard in question was El of the Two Knives. El was actually a Master at the time of the events of the story; we have changed his status for reasons of dramatic necessity. In the interests of full disclosure and fairness, El apparently toasted Duke Aonghais for all the good he had done the kingdom (and there was some good done by him, apparently). I'll add that this goes along with my own feeling that one of the duties of a peer is to do the things that are unpopular but right.
This is pure invention, although the action was rescinded de facto, because in a later reign Lucan made no attempt to strike the name.
As far as I know, there was never any official action taken against El, though some sort of understanding (“Stay away from me for the next six months...”) was probably reached.
