When in Rome, do like the Romans! Wear togas… what did you think I was going to say?
Callooh Callay! Oh frabjous day! My friends were getting crowned.
This little Viking — well, not so little, really — feels weird, because she doesn’t know how to roman. She’s more of a stayin kinda gal, to be honest. Thank goodness for Bianca di Firenze, who knows all about stolas and pallas and I’m pretty sure dressed the entire kingdom. Or at least the Malagentian half.
But before the festivities were to begin, there was always more work to be done for this Viking-turned Roman. Wait, where’s my bling? None of my bling matches! ACK!
I had been informed a few months prior that Lord Alexandre St Pierre was to receive *his* Laurel — I think you’ll start to notice a trend of when I compose. At least, I’m not decomposing. Yet. Wait, what’s that smell?
Anyways, how does one write a song for a scribe? I made lists of all the things he couldn’t do very well — it wasn’t that long a list. I even tried to read poems about other scribes — don’t try it, because they don’t exist. But what does exist is a passion for hobbies, and then I was inspired by his passion. By his words, by what came from his hands, you could even say inspired by his hands.
I wanted well-rounded scribe, but a talented artist, and an archer as well. So I figured it out. I wasn’t going to write him a song. I was going to write him a poem instead!
Poems were their own sort of challenge, because they weren’t restricted by the same parameters as a song. Word stress was also far different. I hadn’t written a poem for anyone in seventeen years. I guess you have to start somewhere. Again. I stared at blank paper. I stared at ink. I made lists of all to include *everything* he did, not just the scribal aspect. I used allusions to swords and to archery, and music as well. I was pleased with the product, but as always, shy to present it to the public.
Coronation arrived, and I think I figured out which way was up with my garb — the little arrows Bianca safety-pinned on really helped. I arrived early to help set up his vigil. And schmooze, as you do. And check for the 513th time I was wearing my palla correctly. Which fell off my head over 9,000 times! If I hadn’t been told how much of a hussy I would have been without one, I would have just given up on the darn thing.
Morning court came, and everyone played it cool. I had Alexandre’s little flaggy hidden in my palla, and he was the first one called in. The look of, “Oh crap!” was priceless! Hopefully someone got it on camera! We waved our little flaggies and watched as he was sent off to vigil. He was one of the lucky ones, because he wasn’t there when (former) King Brion made the entire room cry while singing “My Queen” to his lovely wife, Anna. I bet Alexandre’s were the only dry eyes in the entire building as King Brion sang well and with all his heart, nothing could have been more true. It was really freaking adorable. Even the Vikings cried, though they probably won’t admit it, since they were all disguised as Romans.
About an hour into his vigil, I finally got my chance to present my gift to Alexandre. I felt like one of the fairies from Sleeping Beauty. I hope it’s not Merryweather. Oh God, or Maleficent!
Since I lack the skill of calligraphy and illumination — I’m learning, but it’s taking quite a bit of time — I had “borrowed” in classic Viking fashion, a previously created illumination from Ye Olde Internets, and had placed the words of my own composition on it using Ye Olde Word MMXIII. You would think, as a bard, I’d be better at words in vigils. But I feel as if I always walk all over my tongue. I spoke to Alexandre of the beauty that he presents the world, and his multitude of gifts. So now it was my time to give him a gift back, the only one I have to offer. I handed him the framed copy, and then began to read. I didn’t catch his reaction, since I was too busy being nervous reading it to him to look up, but I feel it was well received. I also let him know that I learned a new trade just to be able to honor him that day. I told him that I would be heralding him into court. This is something I had never done before, not just in court aspect, but at all.
The rest of the afternoon passed, and it was time for the afternoon court, the first court of the new King and Queen, my friends, Ionnes and Honig. We anxiously mustered in the hall. We were all of Woolfe’s Company: We were small but we were mighty. Thank you, New England April Fool’s Day storm. We were the last business, but the energy was still high. As herald, I was the second to process, the first being a small boy no older than eight years old, carrying Alexandre’s banner of arms. I wrote the words that morning as I was inspired, and grandiosely presented my friend to the Known World. In addition, I had arranged a Machaut piece (which was of his persona) to be played as I heralded. I made sure the words suited him, and that I was clearer than crystal. The world would tremble at his presence. But not too much, because as Sir Ivan remarked, he is a small man.
Beautiful gifts were presented to him as were his right, and court finished soon after as all the Laurels swarmed to welcome their newest inductee. I got a hug too.
Now my favorite part of any event, that doesn’t have shopping, FEAST!
This feast would have a new twist — I had signed up to serve. It’s true. My palla found a new place to live, as I became a kitchen hussy. This experience was not only enlightening, because while I had only just recently learned what it was like to run a feast a few months prior, I had never served a feast before. I would say I rolled up my sleeves and dug in, but I didn’t have any. Where it was a whirlwind at times, it was still a great time. The camaraderie and leftovers were great. 9.5, maybe 10 out of 10, would definitely serve again. Besides, any time I can be that close to Gryffyth’s food is a fantastic day in my book!
By His Hand
“Look at that,” he said, “how the ink bleeds.”
It mirrors the way the rivers
of the soul soak in the parchment
He loved the way it looked
to write on a thick pillow of the pad
To him, it was like music, a song in his hands–
all of the possible drawings,
curves, relationships–
all of the answers, questions, mysteries,
all of the problems solvable in that space.
The pen in his hand,
a key to the prison, that white space.
By his hand, a new beginning.
By his hand, imagery–flights of arrows
Piercing through the stark confines
Like a sword dashing through the dark,
Revealing a new light
in his work, in his words
Meddlings of the Minnesinger 