I. The Way It Was
Timor Mortis
Rima of Rockridge
I who was big with spiteful breath
To swell at those who'd challenge me
Lie spent before encroaching Death:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Death hath taken goodly knights
By feints and sudden butchery
To snatch the victory from their sights:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Since He hath challenged all the lists
No man can steal sweet victory
Or break his grasp by subtle twists:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
His arms enclose both count and squire
And closing will not let them free
But hold the merciless entire:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
No man so quick as Death to strike,
So sure to hobble them that flee;
Eke ill and good takes he alike:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
'A'th summoned Douglas to his dance,
Undone for bransles of Burgundy,
Limbs locked in rigor's mocking stance:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
'A'th won the toss from lucky Will
Who gambled at conspiracy:
His nine quick fingers now lie still:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Bern Bellower's his, who roused the town
With bawdy songs and minstrelay,
No more to reach for crock and crown:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
York's William hath he straght devoured
The swifter for his gluttony;
Macarailt hath he overpowered:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
'A'th dunned Dunharrow: Westmarch lies
Weighted down with ironmongery;
Spilt, scribe Elriin's brightest dyes:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Both Stevens stiffen on the ground
Constrained in camaraderie,
MacEanruig to Lorraine still bound:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Sweet Perigrynne hath kissed the field
Persorming his last courtesy
Whiles carrion crows surmount his shield:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Good Houghton's ta'en from Rollingwood
For all his laudability;
What mercy his, whom men called good?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
What mercy Andrew's, unreprieved
When lamed he fell upon one knee,
Too young for Death to take ungrieved:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
If Death's the readier to slay
Brave youth and laudability,
What mercy mine save that I pray:
Timor mortis conturbat me.
William the Lucky
Bela of Eastmarch
It was the bold Sir William, called Lucky by the folk
Who came unto the tourney, one day when springtime spoke
In birds and buds and bloodbeat and ladies' eyes grown soft,
And in the battle-banners that call men's hearts aloft.
Now dance the measure lightly!
A good and faithful servant to all the Western realm
As seneschal and poet, this day he bore a helm;
And tall amidst the tourney, his blazon shining bright,
He asked the gathered worthies if they would care to fight.
Now dance the measure lightly!
The warriors were eager; the strife grew hight and hot.
In gallantry and gladness, Sir William gave and got.
Where shields were suns and stormclouds, where swords like eagles flew
He fell, but never faltered. And he will fight anew.
Now dance the measure lightly!
Bern Bellower
Ruthven & Rima of Rockridge
Now the lists are still once more:
Bern Bellower's dead, who'd rather roar.
Elriin of Hrassvelg
Diana Listmaker
South wind, east wind, what have you seen?
The wind blowing warm, the grass shining green.
What does the wind from the west have to say?
How many the warriors who gather today.
And what is the word that comes down from the north?
Elriin of Hrassvelg to war has gone forth.
South wind, east wind, what have you in sight?
The wind blowing cold from the wings of the night.
What is the sorrow the west wind knows?
How many have fallen, struck down by their foes.
And why does the wind from the north wail in pain?
Elriin of Hrassvelg will not come again.
Robert of Westmarch
Gwydion pen Derwynn
Out of the ashes, the smoke of desolation
Calls forth the ghosts of the battlefield's slain,
"Rise up, ye warriors, again for your nation,
Let now the embers recall your last pain!"
Westmarch is broken, the forge is now gone,
No more the dint of the hammer shall sound;
Broken the blade that was forged in the dawn,
Broken lies Westmarch upon the cold ground.
Far from the land that had borne him to manhood,
Far from his country he rode to the West;
Robert of Westmarch, renowned for his armour,
Came to the Mistlands his prowess to test.
Westmarch is broken, the forge is now gone,
No more the dint of the hammer shall sound;
Broken the blade that was forged in the dawn,
Broken lies Westmarch upon the cold ground.
High in the mountains, the eagle is soaring,
Deep in the valley the ravens at feast
Call forth the memory of high chieftains warring,
Call forth the ghost of the man from the East.
Westmarch is broken, the forge is now gone,
No more the dint of the hammer shall sound;
Broken the blade that was forged in the dawn,
Broken lies Westmarch upon the cold ground.
Steven MacEanruig
Rima of Rockridge
Out of the ash lands, out of the dunes,
Through foes, through flame, and the fiery sun's burning,
Steven strode, no stranger to war,
Eanruig's son, Ashenlands' lord,
Marklands he marched, measured the sands:
Need was upon him. North he stalked,
Clad for battle, Claiming the throne,
Mistland's mastery, from many another,
Princes and plotters: little peace did they know
Who saw Steven stern in the lists,
Dealer of dooms, delighter in blows,
Ready of heart, in ruin no less
Than on victory's verge: valor was his.
