The Legend of the Weeping Knight

Some Troubadours are just such, others are something else altogether

A WORK IN PROGRESS

The balladeer mounted the small podium, lute in hand and began to speak;

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen." He spoke in an odd and frankly archaic dialect, but with a fluid and musical lilt to his words. "In these tense days, with our fair city under siege by the barbaric host, I can rightly understand why everyone is feeling rather somber. It is a grave thing to be under siege and assault by such a fell and merciless foe."

"Even so, yes, despite all that" He continued "Perhaps if I ply my lute and sing songs of better times. Perhaps then we can all, for at least a portion of this evening, feel a bit more joy in our lives."

And so indeed did the jolly fellow sing and play. His fingers nimble upon the strings of his well mastered instrument, and his voice seeming to be a magical thing, touching hearts and minds equally. The hours of the night flew by, lightened so much of their heavy burden of the enemy at the walls. Later however. Later, as candles grew short, and the embers in the fireplace begin to darken, the minstrel grew somber himself and begin to play one more tune. A tune of dirgelike quality which quickly began to suck all of the life out of the evening. It was an ancient tune; 'The Ballad of the Weeping Knight', a tune well enough known to most folks, but entirely unwelcome during these times.

The main body of the ballad is to be composed here.

And so, one verse short of completing his sorrowful ballad, the balladeer placed his palm upon the still ringing strings of his lute, and like a pillow smothering a life, silenced them. The room sat hushed. No gifts of any more cash or drinks for this one. Not with such an unpleasant piece having just been played under such dire circumstances. No, not a chance. The Balladeer was not well received any more.

Through that hush however, a disturbance could be heard outside in the street. Not a scuffle, but something. A shriek of terror followed by a frantic pounding on the door of the the inn. A burly fellow near the door, checked and then admitted the panic stricken pounder, a young woman, who at a glance, appeared to be as white as a sheet and trembling.

When the silent patrons of the inn were slow to inquire, the balladeer himself kindly asked of the maiden; "What is amiss fair lady, have you been accosted in the street ?"

To which, at first the women did not reply at all. Instead, she continued to compose herself. She did however, even in her silence, have the attention of all the inn's patrons, and of the staff as well. And, soon enough, she did break the silence with a brief explanation:

"There was a man" She began.

"In the street" She continued.

"He was crying, weeping in fact, as he walked."

"His step was slow, his head lowered and he was attired from head to toe in armour"

She pauses for a moment.

"I ..... I could hear the grief in his voice. Wrenching sadness"

"Dear Knight, I asked of him, good sir. Why do you weep so ?"

"And he paused still weeping, and oh so briefly turned his iron clad gaze to me"

"Then, then he simply resumed his slow weeping walk and mumbled .... 'I weep for you, all of you and for myself' "

"The trembling of his shoulders, it touched my heart, and so I stepped forward to comfort the fellow with a few encouraging words"

"Sir, we face trying times, but surely we shall find a way to muddle through."

"He did not pause in his slow walking, so I placed my hand forward to pat him gently, while offering my sympathies to him."

"But"

"My hand ..... my hand passed clear through him ...... "

"The Weeping Knight ..... he is a shade .... a ghost .... he is dead already "

"I screamed ...."

"What ? What does it all mean ?" She inquired of the inn's guests and of the balladeer.

But then the eyes of the woman suddenly grew large, a sign of renewed terror. Reflexively, the eyes of the crowd followed her gaze towards the podium and the mute balladeer.

And upon the podium, the balladeer strummed his lute again, and sang one more verse of his dirgeful song, so recently paused:

They say that he's preceded by a spectral minstrel knave

And that they're bound together neither master neither slave

And yet where one is found, you will always find the other

Spirits bound forever weeping knight and minstrel brother

And as he sang with his angelic voice, all the while, tears were streaming down his face as the balladeer was fading away into spectral clouds of luminous aether. Even so, his voice still rang vibrantly throughout the room. And in the end, he was gone, gone altogether. All that remained being the final reverberating chord of his lute. The balladeer. He was nothing. Nothing at all.

A pall fell upon the room

It has a name.

Despair.