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zzambrosius_02
Ambros and Kim were setting up the Gigantic Roman Wall Tent, which was the last one up.
“I’m gonna lift this beam up and when the holes line up you jam that pin through...” He grunted as he moved the 2x6 into position. Kim slid the wooden pin in.
“Okay, three more like that and we’re done with tents.”
Kim sighed, then grinned: “It’s hard, but I bet it’ll be worth it.”
“Yeah,” he said. They finished the set-up, and stood breathing for a bit.
Ambros looked to the west, gauged the wind: “It will rain this weekend.” He glanced around: “Hey!” he shouted: “Three guys to help for a minute?”
Two young men, Squires by their red belts, looked at each other; one of them shrugged and they came over: “How can we be of service?”
A third man walked over: “What’s up?” His red belt looked brand new.
“I want to move this tent two feet north...that way. So the doorway is under the edge of the kitchen. One guy on each corner. Lift smoothly and move it to...there...And then the wedge tent, too...Perfect!”
Ambros looked at the full set-up critically, then said: “We’ll be ready to rope them down if it gets windy, but for now...”
Kim looked at the complete encampment with a little frown.
Ambros took three small silver coins stamped with his arms from a pouch on his white leather belt: “Thank you, gentlemen.” He handed one to each man; they examined them.
“Wow,” said one.
“Thank you, sir.”
The third man looked closely at the coin in his hand: “Your Excellency,” he said, bowing: “Will there be anything else?”
Ambros quirked an eyebrow: “Tell your knight—or knights—that I commend your courtesy and helpfulness, and invite them to come see me...Friday evening, if that is convenient.”
“We’ll do it, Excellency.” They walked off, chatting animatedly.
Kim said: “I see what you’ve done here.”
“What’s that?”
“If we stay in this camp, we never need to go out into the rain. If...when it rains.”
“Yep,” he replied: “I’m gonna put some stakes in these two tents to hold them in place. You could help Marie set the kitchen up...”
Marie came over as he finished: “Luisa and I are heading back to town for ice and fresh produce. We’ll be back as soon as we can, and cook dinner.”
“Sounds good,” he said; she kissed him.
Ambros sat in a camp chair, which looked very like a throne. It was the biggest chair in his camp, and it had his name on it, carved and painted in Greek and Latin letters. Built of oak slats and plywood, held together by pegs, and padded with leather and silk roving, it could be taken apart and stacked flat. He rocked it back and forth, settling its legs into the mud a bit until it was nearly level: ‘Better check the pegs on this when I get up, what with wiggling it like that.’
He didn’t look forward to cleaning the legs after the event.
He gazed around the camp, pleased at his position at the west side of the List Field. ‘No problem hearing the heralds cry, even with my helm on,’ he thought. ‘And we’ll have a good view of all the fighting, and fencing, and court, without having to move.’
Other than the tent poles and bed, the entire encampment fitted neatly into a plethora of trunks, which, when stacked very precisely, filled his trailer. The nicer looking, which is to say, more ancient, of these trunks, stood about the camp, used for storage and to hide things like coolers and boxes of food. ‘All told, the set-up went very well. The women caught on to the system pretty quick.’
He got up and fiddled with the pegs, making sure the chair wouldn’t collapse the next time someone sat in it. He estimated the time by guessing where the sun was, hidden by clouds. ‘It’s gonna be time for the Friday Night Fights Tourney pretty soon,’ he mused: ‘I’d better take a trip to the loo about now.’
He strolled along the path towards the incongruously smurf-blue porta-pots, nodding and accepting salutes and bows as was his due. His gold chain, white belt and the solid black leather-and-iron Viscounty coronet were tickets to instant respect in any SCA scenario.
His evident age, long flowing topknot, and the easy way he carried his armor all added to the spectacle.
His arm and leg harness were of black leather, recently re-vamped and re-dyed for looks. His body armor shone in the weak light. He had a chain mail haubergeon, made of flat riveted rings, and leather scale front and back plates he wore over the mail. He needed only his helm and gauntlets to be ready for battle. ‘SCA style battle, that is, swordplay with rattan “swords”.’ He made a very impressive sight, and he knew it. ‘All part of the play,’ he thought.
While he was pissing, the rain began to pound on the roof of the porta-pot. He grinned, happy that he’d set up all the canvas that he owned. Two sleeping tents, the arming pavillion, a kitchen shelter, and the dayshade: ‘They’ll make the difference between a wet and horrible weekend and relative comfort.
‘The wedge is for Randy. The Roman wall tent will hold the women and me...the arming tent, that one’s round, in the style of the High Middle Ages. All my canvas is painted in Byzantine designs.’
As he approached the camp, back from the ‘biffies’ as the locals called the portable toilets, he found that a small group of people had occupied his day shade, now a rain shelter. There were two young women and two men standing around looking wet and bedraggled, and one man sitting in Ambros’ chair.
He shook his mail a little so his gold (bronze, actually) knight’s chain rattled, and made sure his belt flapped a bit, so they’d know his rank, then pushed his way into the group.
“I’d like my chair back, please,” he said, cheerfully. The fellow who was sitting in it grinned in a slightly challenging way, and got up slowly. ‘Too slowly,’ thought Ambros. He waited till the man had barely cleared the space and then sat down, shouldering the guy aside a bit to gain access.
The fellow turned quickly and glared at Ambros. His tunic was green with a Gold Key symbol appliquéd to the breast.
Ambros smiled: “You must be new to the SCA.”
“Huh. What makes you say that?”
Ambros laughed: “All kinds of things. You want a list?”
“Sure,” Green Tunic said, sarcastically.
Ambros sighed: “Right. First, the Gold Key embroidered on your tunic means you borrowed it from the local branch. Then, you are at a four-day camping event in rainy weather wearing running shoes and polyester socks, plus blue jeans that are already wet to the
knees. You will be miserably cold after sunset, and you show no sign that you realize that.
“You decided to get out of the rain by walking into someone’s encampment, and sitting in his chair, without a by-your-leave. When I got back here, you showed no sign of understanding what the symbols of rank and status I am wearing mean, and you felt confident enough to dis me a little as you yielded my chair. No one with a year’s experience in the SCA—hell, no one with a month’s experience—would so fail at basic courtesy.”
“Oh.”
Randy came out from behind the day shade, properly dressed for the weather and occasion. He was wearing the leg armor he’d borrowed from the Baron. He began to root around in his armor bag, putting on pieces and grinning as he anticipated the evening’s play.
Green Tunic seemed to notice, for the first time, that Ambros was armored, except for helm and gauntlets. “You must be one of those fighter guys, huh?” Green Tunic’s sarcasm was flagging a bit.
Randy looked up, frowning. He started to speak, but Ambros raised a hand, palm open: “Everyone be nice. They are new, as you are, but have evidently not had your good fortune.”
“Yes, your Excellency. May I introduce you, Sir?”
“By all means,” Ambros said, still smiling.
“Excellency?” Green Tunic was sarcastic, as before.
Ambros stopped smiling: “It’s okay if you don’t want to play our game. But if so, you’d best move along.” Ambros made a little shoo-ing motion with his hand.
Green Tunic raised both hands to shoulder level, palms out: “Okay, sorry, I’ll behave.”
'At least till the rain lets up,’ thought Ambros. Aloud, he said: “Proceed, Randall.”
“Yes, Sir. What is your name, m’lord?” Randy gazed steadily at Green Tunic.
“Donny Jensson.”
Randy didn’t miss a beat: “Sir, I present to you Donny Jensson, evidently a stranger in these lands. M’lord Jensson, this is His Excellency Viscount Ambrose Mavrokorónas, Knight of the Society.”
Jensson seemed impressed in spite of himself, though he was trying hard to stay jaded and cynical. Ambros thought he might lose that struggle, and become a real SCAdian. So…
“Randall, if you please, go back into the kitchen and bring some chairs out. Five for our guests and another for yourself.”
“Certainly.” Randall gestured at Jensson: “Gimme a hand, okay?”
Ambros smiled at the others there, all in scruffy borrowed tunics and bad (for the weather) footgear. He said: “Introduce yourselves, please.”
The young ladies were Allison and Debra; he rose and bowed over their hands, then shook hands with the men, Thomas and Alec.
Soon they were all in a circle around the small barbeque pit, which Ambros lit up. The flames crackled and hissed and the newcomers all stretched their hands and feet towards the fire.
Allison asked: “So, are you going to be fighting tonight, Am…Sir Ambros?”
“A little. I’m not entering the competition tonight; the Baron told me this one is intended for young folks who can’t wait to start swinging. But,” he said reassuringly, since she seemed disappointed: “I am armored. I am going to help Randall warm up, do a little teaching, and remind him of the fundamentals. Then I’ll set him loose to see how he does.”
“Oh,” said Allison. She moved and sat by Randy, quizzing him about swordplay.
Gradually, and ever so gently, Randy and Ambros informed the newcomers about the SCA: ranks and status, the many Arts practiced, martial and otherwise, the multiple layers of governance, and the conceit that the Royalty ran everything.
“That’s a big part of the Game,” said Ambros. “It underlies the whole performance, the roles everyone is playing.”
“It’s kinda like a LARP, then,” said Donny.
Ambros grinned: “Sorta, kinda, in a way. I prefer to think of it as a decades-long, continent-spanning, mostly improvised piece of performance art.”
“Ah,” Donny said. “Okay, that makes sense.”
“It does?” Ambros laughed. “By the way, I’d not compare the SCA to LARPing in anyone else’s camp. Some people won’t like that.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.” Donny Jensson had become thoughtful.
The rain let up and eventually stopped. His guests remained seated, relishing the fire; Ambros listened to their questions and Randy’s answers with a smile, and estimated the odds on members of the group sticking around. The rain lessened and a fresh spring breeze kicked up.
At length, a Herald took to the field. Ambros recognized Lady Lucy of Camden, whom he had met on the train to Eugene: ‘Sally Ackley,’ he thought: ‘that’s her mundane name.’
She drew a deep breath and proclaimed: “My lords and ladies pray attend: armor inspection for the Friday Night Fights will begin in ten minutes. The tournament will be semi-pas d’armes style, with challenges and responses. Be prepared to introduce yourselves, or bring or hire a herald. That is all.”
Several people called out “Thank you, herald!” from various parts of the crowd. The Herald bowed.
Ambros called out: “Thank you, Lady Lucy!”
She turned in surprise, spotted him, smiled, and waved; then she curtsied and returned to her shelter. Ambros put a couple larger logs onto the fire and said: “You about ready, Randall?”
“I am so ready, Sir.”
Ambros smiled: “Finish armoring. Helm on, don’t forget the gorget.”
While Randall was preparing, Ambros spoke to the newcomers: “The way this works is, we will start slowly, gradually getting up to full speed. At full speed, the person who has been struck decides whether the blow is ‘good’ or not.”
“How could the blow not be good? If it struck him?” Allison sat down next to Ambros.
“Well, it could be delivered with insufficient force, by local standards. I checked, the Kingdom here says that all participants are assumed to be wearing a specific set of armor: mail leggings and haubergeon, like this one,” he patted his short sleeved mail shirt: “and treated leather arm and knee guards, iron helmet...that sort of thing. And gauntlets are considered ‘proof’.
“It’s worth pointing out that almost nobody in the SCA insists on a blow that would really penetrate that armor and damage a person. A lot of people say they do, but most of them are relying on testimony from their instructors as to what level of force that would require.
“Anyway, a blow could be aimed badly, and so skip off; or it could be partially blocked; or the receiver could think it was a tip shot. It could be flat. It could be too close to the hilt.”
“Oh. So there are lotsa ways to hit that don’t count?”
“Yeah, I haven’t even got to them all yet. Excuse me, I need to go swing a little.”
Ambros got up and put on his helm, then his gauntlets. He grabbed the sword and shield from behind his chair and strolled out to the field.
Randy followed a few minutes later; they approached a Marshall, who inspected their armor: “Let me check that grill...tip your head back, please, then forward...good on the elbows...bend your knee...Are you wearing your cup, Sir? Very good.”
Once they were cleared to start, Ambros and Randall began the warm-up routine they had developed. They exchanged blows and defended themselves at very slow speed at first. When the younger man felt confident, he gradually sped up; Ambros matched his speed. At length they disengaged.
Ambros said: “Ready for full speed?” He said that loudly, so that Randy could hear it inside the helm, and so the newcomers in his dayshade could hear him.
“Yes, Sir!” said Randy.
A quick exchange of blows and Randy was legged. He dropped to his knees, still in guard. Ambros finished him with a strike to the head: “Good!” Randall cried.
Again, and Randy dropped: Ambros landed a cut to the body, under his man-at-arms’ shield.
A third fight, and Randy lost use of the leg again.
“Hold!” Ambros said, calling a halt to their fight: “Let’s talk a sec.” He knelt in front of Randy, so he was eye-to-eye with his student. He removed his helm and Randy followed suit.
“Okay, you just got hit in the back of the leg in three consecutive fights. Why?” Again, he spoke so that the spectators could hear him.
Randy paused, then said: “I was not being wary of that weird cut that SCA fighters do: the wrap.”
“Correct. So, let’s review: what is a wrap?”
“It is a cut with the back edge of the sword, the false edge, as some call it.”
Ambros waited.
“Also...” Randall paused: “... a true wrap has at least two vector changes.”
“Excellent! Why do we not execute that cut at the Salon Spathena?”
Again, Randy paused: “It is not applicable in single sword or two-handed forms...it allows too many openings.”
“Why is it relatively common in SCA combat?”
“Because the large shields used, in imitation of pre-renaissance fighting styles, generally cover those openings, allowing the wrap to be used relatively safely.”
“Good,” said Ambros: “What is this blow good for?”
Randy paused a little longer. Then he said: “First. From the first distance, it may be a distraction, causing your opponent to defend incorrectly...combined with a step into distance, it may attack the helm or leg at a different angle than a snap or cut. From close distance, it may reach the back of the head, ribs, or leg. Hard for the opponent to defend.”
“That’s pretty good. We’ll pass over the disadvantages of relying on the wrap, and fight some more, unless...”
The Herald stepped onto the field. While they had been talking, other fighters had gathered, gotten their inspections, and begun warming up.
She cried: “My lord and lady combatants, those who are entering this pas d’armes may form a rank at the Prince’s side of the field. Have your herald with you, or be prepared to introduce yourself. That is all!”
Lucy curtsied to the calls of thanks, and left the field.
“I’ll be your herald, if it please you, Randall.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Randy, obviously relieved.
Randy got up and went to get in the line of fighters. Ambros whispered instructions: “Give me your shield...put your sword through your belt...hold your helm in one arm; when I name the Prince, bow from the waist in his direction.”
They stood near the far end of the line, close to the royalty’s dayshade. The first three combatants introduced themselves: since they were relatively new to the Society, they mostly fumbled a bit.
Randall’s turn came; Ambros stepped forward, displaying Randall’s blank red shield: “My Lords, My Ladies, pray attend my words. Prince Andrew, Baron Darien, I beg leave to speak in this, your court.” The nobles both inclined their heads in permission. Sir Darien was grinning.
Ambros continued: “I am Viscount Ambrose Mavrokorónas, Knight, and a new immigrant to this most distinguished Principality and this noble Barony. I have come to herald into your presence this man, Randall. He is a student of swordplay, but new to the Barony. I have the honor to call him my man-at-arms; I beg that you will permit him entry into this, your pas d’armes.”
The Prince rose; the Baron perforce did likewise.
“I wonder where the Princess and the Baroness are?’ Ambros thought.
His Highness gestured, arms wide in welcome: “We are pleased to permit this, with his Excellency Darien’s agreement. Sir, will you come and join Us here in his Excellency’s pavilion?”
Ambros bowed: “Grant me only a moment, Highness, and I should be most pleased.”
Another nod, and Ambros headed to his dayshade: he quickly tended the fire, dropped his sword and shield behind the chair, and tossed his gauntlets and gorget into the trunk. “You folks are welcome to sit here and watch the tournament,” he said. “I am summoned into the Prince’s presence.”
The din of combat had already begun; he strolled slowly around the south side of the List Field, greeting courteously all who passed. He stopped to watch Randall win a bout. He approached the Prince.
‘This Prince Andrew,’ he thought, ‘is an un-knighted fighter from the south of the Principality, near the California border. Not well-thought-of by the Kingdom’s Chivalry, either.’
He gathered there’d been some controversy about Andrew’s level of courtesy in his victory at the Coronet Tourney. ‘Of course, I am relying on rumor from the Principality MyFace Pages, so that may be all smoke. It’s not my concern, unless his Highness should ask me about it. I do not want to get involved in SCA politics, I have enough on my hands as it is.’
He saw two women, by the circlets on their heads identifiable as the Princess and the Baroness, just outside the back of the dayshade speaking together seriously. The Baroness seemed disturbed; the Princess’ gestures showed her as placating her Excellency.
‘Diplomacy in action,’ he mused. He turned to the men seated on large chairs.
“Have a seat, Sir Ambros,” said the Prince, as soon as the formalities of bows and salutes had been dealt with.
“That was well done,” the Prince continued: “Your introduction of your man-at-arms has had a salutary effect upon the rest of the field.”
They listened for a moment as the combatants exchanged challenges and responses.
Baron Darien nodded: “Much better.”
Ambros grinned: “I’d kind of hoped for that. They needed an example.”
“Well said, your Excellency,” the Prince responded.
They spent a few minutes establishing Ambros’ bona fides: “I was squired to Sir Marcus Devlin. Knighted by King Gaius Korvach of Mediterranea. I was Prince of the Big Rivers in 1999 Gregorian.”
He made his exit as soon as he politely could: “A gang of newbies invaded my camp right before the tourney. I better get back and see about their footgear.”
“Let me know if I can help,” said Baron Darien.
“I will surely do so.”
When he was back at his camp, he set more wood on the fire. He watched Randy fight, seeing that he was winning more than he was losing. When the Herald called for a rest, Ambros excused himself: “I want to contact the other people who are camping with me,” he explained.
Once he was in his sleeping tent, he dug out his Shifter. He used it and the MPS together to create a link to Marie’s phone: “Yeah, it’s me...see if you can scrounge up some rubber boots. Black would be better...I saw some in the garage...newcomers...well, five pairs if you can find that many...okay, see you in a couple hours, then? Great!”
He grinned happily as he left the tent, thinking: ‘Wellingtons are not period, but nobody will care if they are on obvious newcomers.’
A burly knight appeared in front of the dayshade. He stood, hands behind his back, in an attitude of patient waiting. The steel sword at his belt pulled the left side of it down some.
Ambros spotted him: “May I be of service? Come in, if you’d like to sit.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said the man: “I am Sir Porthos of Pembrook. My Squires relayed your invite...”
“Yes of course,” said Ambros: “Ambros Mavrokoronas, at your service.”
He sat the fellow down in a comfy wooden chair and returned to his own seat. He examined Sir Porthos carefully: Porthos had beetling brows that made him seem threatening, but a grin that engaged and a gentle manner about him.
Ambros offered a beer, and the grin grew much wider. “I’d never refuse a drink.” He cracked the can and poured it into a mug that he pulled off a thong on his belt. Ambros took the can back and stowed it in the drinks cooler. He poured himself a shot of Jameson’s.
“You got some prime real estate here, Excellency,” said Porthos: “How do you rate?” It was not said with envy, but jestingly.
“I don’t know. Baron Darien asked me in January of I’d come to this Tourney...I asked for space on the List field and he said he could give me 20 line feet...which was perfect. I can’t complain...”
“Perfect all right,” said Porthos: “I can watch the rest of this shindig from right here, if you don’t mind. I got a Squire in this thing, and I expect he’ll be in the semis.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Porthos, not bragging: “One of the ones who helped you out yesterday, William Helmsworth. He’s overdue to be made knight.”
Ambros nodded: “I got a man-at-arms in this, too. He’s pretty raw, but very talented.”
“I hate those guys,” said Porthos, and laughed.
Ambros laughed, too, getting the joke.
The main part of the tourney completed, the fighters were standing around in the List Field awaiting news. As they waited, they chatted, discussing the fights they’d been in, and exchanging such tips as they could.
Ambros strolled out onto the field, nodding at the bows and salutes that the younger folk accorded him. He grinned at Randy: “Well, Randall, you did pretty well for a first tourney.”
Randy shuffled a bit, saying: “Oh, I don’t know.”
The rest of the combatants all agreed with Ambros: “You did great...had my hands full...gonna be a bruise here...had my number...”
The Herald came to the field then, crying: “Hear my words, lords and ladies combatant. His Highness chooses William Helmsworth to be his representative in the semi-finals. Her Highness chooses Lady Danielle. His Excellency chooses Randall, man-at-arms to Viscount Ambros. Her Excellency chooses Gram of Galves. Semi-finalists arm and stand ready. All others clear the field, by the command of His Highness.”
Ambros and Porthos laughed and bumped fists.
“Maybe our boys will fight...” said Porthos.
Ambros smiled: “Just might happen.”
When the dust settled after the finals, Porthos took his leave: “Your man is a talent all right. He gave as good as he got, but Willie is overdue, like I said.”
“Yeah,” said Ambros: “That’s obvious.”
The sun set, visible at last through a gap in the western clouds. Marie and Kim and Luisa had arrived just before dark; they were cooking in the kitchen shelter, right behind the arming tent. The five newcomers were happy as clams in their Wellies, assured by Ambros that everyone would overlook the rubber boots: “Besides, the sneakers and pumps were not any better, right?”
Randy sat down by the fire. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said to Ambros.
“Whatever for?” Ambros gave an impression of astonishment.
“I...I didn’t win.” Randy shrugged, helplessly.
“So what? You took second place in a hard fought final. Your conduct was honorable. Beyond honorable: I would say exemplary. I am pleased. Squire William’s knight, Sir Porthos, was very impressed.”
Randy sat silent for a while, absorbing this. At last he said: “At school, when I was on the basketball team, they always said that second place was just the last guy to lose.”
“That is true,” said Ambros: “But in the SCA that is seen as honorable. I don’t know the customs of this Barony, but where I come from we usually gave the losing finalist a fairly nice prize. In Coronet and Crown Tourneys, that person, and the consort, received an honor, a little symbol of their accomplishment. I expect it’s the same hereabouts.”
“Show him your necklace,” said Luisa, who had come out of the back to snag some firewood.
He made a wry face: “I will.” He pulled a string of Byzantine beads from under his tunic: “Since you ask. I’d not be bragging on myself, but here: a Silver Acorn, for second place in Coronet. I have three more of those.”
“So you lost...”
“Yes, I am one-and-four in Coronet finals. I did eventually win, and serve as Prince.” He tapped his coronet: “That service is why I am a Viscount.”
“Ah.”
“And, you know: there are four more heavy tourneys, two rapier tourneys, and a wrestling competition. You may not win, but you’ll have lots more chances to try.”
Randy perked up: “Yeah, that’s cool. I can’t wait!”
Randy’s SO Marissa arrived, wearing a backpack and carrying a duffelbag. She looked flustered. Randy leapt to his feet and took the duffel, then led her to the tent they’d be sharing. They stayed inside for longer than it would take to drop her stuff.
Allison the newbie, who had been sitting next to Randy, said: “So I was wondering...”
“Yes, m’lady?”
She blushed a bit, but went on: “You speak so formally, sometimes...”
“We call it ‘forsoothly’. You won’t have to do it.”
“Oh, but I want to! I want to fit in...”
“Very well,” he said: “Start by paying closer attention to grammar and diction. Limit ellisions and contractions, and slang words like ‘okay’. I’d advise against using the more flowery Shakespearean expressions, until you know what they mean.”
“Oh,” she said: “Like, ‘wherefore’ means ‘why’, not where, and a lot of people don’t know that?”
He smiled again: “Exactly. Also: people’s titles matter. Use those, and you are a step ahead already. ‘Excellency’ for the Baron and Baroness, and for those of Viscounty rank. Counts and Countesses are also Excellencies. The Prince or Princess is ‘Your Highness’. The Crown is not attending, I hear, so you needn’t worry about ‘Majesties’ this weekend. Also, the deeper into the event we get, the more formal people will be. And the closer you are to the List Field, which is pretty much the center of things, the more formal you should be. Always bow to the Prince and Princess.
“Despite all of that, people will fall into and out of ‘persona’ in unpredictable ways. Follow the lead of whoever you are talking to, and you’ll be fine.”
“Okay, cool...I mean, thank you very much, your Excellency.”
“You are more than welcome, m’lady.”
“It must be cool...I mean fine...to be a baroness or something like that,” she said.
“Hmm. Well, I’d say it’s like being president of the local Moose Lodge,’ he mused: ‘You have a lot of work to do, you’re a big man in your own lodge, and you have some status among Meese everywhere, but it won’t get you a cup of coffee from anyone else.”
Allison frowned: “I hadn’t thought about it being work. I guess it would be, though...”
Randy and Marissa returned to the fireside; Marissa seemed calmer. Randy introduced Marissa and Alison, and sat between them.
Much later that evening, Ambros sat by the fire, wakeful. Randall had left to ramble about with Marisa and Alison and her friends; Marie, Kim, and Luisa had retired. A pair of apparently distressed young women approached his camp.
One of them hailed him: “Sir? I don’t mean to bother you...”
“Bother away,” he said, not too loudly: “How may I be of service?”
“Well...we were over at the picnic shelter, near the front gate, and...
The other lady continued: “...there were these three teenage girls staggerng around, drunk as skunks...”
“...and bragging about it!” The first lady finished.
“Obviously underaged, I take it?” Ambros knew the scenario, and knew also how badly such misadventures could go.
Both women nodded, emphatically. One said: “We were looking around for a Constable and couldn’t find one, so Enid said: ‘There’s a Knight by that fire...’ I mean, we don’t want to get them in trouble or anything...”
“They would have gotten themselves into trouble,” said Ambros. “You were mere bystanders. However,” and here he grinned at them: “By pure luck, you’ve come to the correct Peer.”
“How so?” “What do you mean?” they said, at once.
“You found a Knight who happens to be an anarchist in the real world. The drunken girls are likely facing a terrific hangover tomorrow morning; I’d just as soon they faced nothing worse. You with me?”
“Absolutely!” said the shorter lady.
“Okay,” said Ambros: “Listen carefully: first, speak of this to no one else, especially not to any other Peer. Next, track the young ladies down. If they’ve made it to their own camp, confront them there. If not, take them home. Explain politely that if a Constable—or a Peer more prudish than I am—finds them wandering the site intoxicated, they will be expelled from the event, with the entire encampment where they are staying.”
“Whoa!” said the taller woman.
Ambros nodded grimly: “Exactly: whoa! But, hey...this is Kingdom Law, in every one of the Laurel Kingdoms.
“Oh...”
Ambros glowered: “Yeah. No exceptions. No delays allowed. No refunds. It’s printed on Page One of the bleeping site booklet.”
“What if...”
“...the girls just get mad at us? Or blow us off?”
Ambros said: “If we’re lucky, they’ll be chastened by the risks they’ve taken, and will head home and stay in camp, of their own free will. If not...Well, then you take them home to their own encampment. You find their parents, or their guardians. You make sure the adults in that camp understand the Rules and keep the kids outta sight until they’re sober.”
“Okaaay...”
“See,” said Ambros: “I want to limit the damage here. I can’t take action myself, or appear to know about this.”
“How come?”
“As a Peer, I would be expected to act to enforce the Rules...but I think it would be a shame to make an entire encampment leave the event on Friday night because of bad judgement by a couple teenagers. And Peer or no, I think for myself. So...I must trust you two to settle this affair.”
“Well, um...” said one.
“What if their parents get mad at us?” asked the other.
Ambros drew a deep breath: “Then you have every right to wash your hands of the affair, and let them get caught or not, as fate will have it. Just walk away...”
He could see that they didn’t relish the task, so he said: “Also, I will shadow you. I’ll be nearby, but out of sight, in case things get scary...” He smiled at them: “Can you do it? I think so!”
He slipped into the tent and got his steel longsword. He followed the ladies, at a distance, as they traipsed off hunting for the reprobates.
An hour later he sat down in his chair again, murmuring: “That went way better than it might have.”
The teens, when informed of the consequences of someone finding them roaming the grounds while hammered, had caught on immediately: “Oh, shit...we didn’t realize...we’re so sorry...we’ll go home...” They’d staggered off, the ladies following close behind and Ambros just within sight behind the parade. Their own camp was silent and dark. The girls’ tent sat near the road, which explained how they’d slipped away.
Ambros didn’t want to know where they’d got the booze: ‘The parties at this end of the campsite were pretty raucous,’ he mused: ‘Easy to imagine somebody getting careless...’
The trip back to camp had been more perilous than the mission, thanks to his decision to shortcut through the darkened campground: unflagged tent ropes nearly tripped him up, and an unexpected hole in the ground beside the road almost took him down.
‘I didn’t hurt myself with that shortcut, but it was a near thing,’ he thought.
But he patted his pocket where he’d put the card that had the brave ladies’ names on it: “I’ll have a word with the Coronet before court tomorrow afternoon.”
Ambros came out of the tent where the women still slept, drawing his sword slowly from its sheath. ‘Silent,” he thought: ‘...be real quiet here, real quiet.’ The sound came again, a greasy rattling that he didn’t recognize.
He paced around the tent, eyes wide, listening. It was a cloudy night, the fog thick and the lowest clouds seemingly right on top of the tents. Even the fires and torches from the nearest camps, where a few people were still partying quietly, seemed dim and far-off.
“Zzz-tok.”
“Oh, for...” He silenced himself. In the dim light he could make out the shape of the alien: a giant ant, with a machine set into its thorax and a squid-like creature attached to its head. It squatted on the ground, in a posture that indicated ‘no ill intent’.
“Unit Ambros. Gree-eetings.”
“What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“Need of consultations. Can you not speak now?”
“Olo to cosmo eenay etho. No, this is neither a good place, nor a good time for you to manifest.”
“This is not costumed festival? As the...zzz...Country Fair?”
He shook his head, forgetting that the antliens were averse to that motion: “Different. Trust me. At the Fair you could pass, briefly. Here, not at all.”
“Yes, we trust you. Where-when can you meet?”
“I am on a vacation. Holiday...Katalavénete? Talk to unit Voukli!”
“Not our desire. You have more influence. Hot aura. Our-unit must talk to you.”
“Voukli has higher Status. Also Arrenji.”
“You. They come, yes. But also you-unit. Zzzzz...OOH-Kay?”
“Shhh! I mean, less sound.”
“Yesss.”
He stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then said: “Alcatraz Quiet. Country Fair site. Four planetary rotations from today. Come at the time we call Third Bell, okay? And I will come alone. I have a beef with y’all...I mean with your collective Unit...anyway.”
“Zzzz. This delay is acceptable. We will come.”
Ambros looked up, and saw a man in a pale tunic and a red squire’s belt come from between the tents at the next camp. He lifted his tunic and dropped his pants, preparing to relieve himself. Just as he let fly, he noticed the Ant. The alien chose that moment to rise to its full height and vanish with a sizzling whoosh.
The squire finished peeing. He stared.
Ambros shook his head again: “You didn’t see anything, Squire. There was nothing to see. Right?”
The fellow nodded emphatically, rearranged his clothing, and then stumbled drunkenly back into his camp.
Ambros thought longingly of the whisky he had stashed in the tent. He shook his head and went to sit by the fire: ‘I’ll build it up a bit, and wait for sleep to come again.”
By that stage of the night, only the most desultory revels continued. Even the encampment near the archery field, which earlier in the evening was loudest of all, had descended into silence.
His ears detected things he’d never heard before when camping, in the SCA or otherwise: tiny rodents, moles or voles, moved furtively in the deep bedewed grass and birds nesting in the trees near the river rustled occasionally in their sleep. The sound of the river went on, rolling and muttering, a thousand variations of tone and splash merging into the background noise. That he could distinguish the sounds of small animals from that background and from one another astonished him.
“Of course,” he muttered, talking to himself: “I haven’t had any real quiet in the outdoors since my first medical treatment in the Commonwealth. Much of the time since then I’ve been indoors, or fighting, or practicing fighting...”
He woke with a start, and realized immediately that he’d fallen asleep sitting up in his chair. He shivered, cold to his bones. He dragged himself back to bed, not thinking beyond the warmth of the bed in the Roman tent. Inside the tent, the women’s body heat had kept it toasty, if a little humid. He lay down on the edge of the bed, outside the blankets, and soon dropped off.
He woke up late in the morning. Kim shook his shoulder: “Brunch is on. You missed breakfast. And the first Tourney of the day is in an hour and a half.”
He shook his head: “Yeah. That’s for the Baronial Championship though. I can’t enter, I don’t have time to do the job. But I am hungry.”
He rose and dressed. When he sat in his chair with a cup of strong tea in one hand and a plate of eggs and bacon and salsa in the other, he felt at ease...sadly, that was not meant to last.
He saw the Lady when she saw him, and he sat up straighter. She strolled casually in his direction.
She stood outside his camp, looking uncomfortable. He gestured, inviting her in: “Have a seat, Mistress Maeve.”
She took a chair facing him and said: “Fancy meeting you here, Sir Ambros.”
Ambros looked at her and searched his memory: ‘I don’t believe this person ever knew my “mundane” name, or anything about my “real life”.’
“Fancy Indeed,” he replied aloud: “I’ve only been on the west coast for a year or so. When...?”
“My ex and I moved here in ’04. I would have returned to Big Rivers after we divorced, but I fell into a mundane job here in Oregon.”
He nodded. “I have certainly heard that sort of tale in the past,” he said, between bites: “Signomi, kyría. Eggs are nasty when they are cold. Have you eaten today?”
“I have.”
“Can I get you coffee? Tea?”
“I’d like some coffee. A bit of sugar...”
“...no cream, yes I recall,” he replied. He finished the eggs and rose: “Be right back.”
He refreshed his cup and put one together for her.
“Somebody visiting?” asked Marie.
“Yes, m’Lady. A...an acquaintance from long ago, not really a friend. From before I dropped out of the SCA in 2001.”
“Ah,” said Marie, picking up her own mug. She followed him out to the dayshade.
Ambros gave Maeve the coffee, then said: “Ah, Mistress Maeve, may I introduce Marie d’Albans? She is new to the Society. Marie, this Maeve the Seaborn, Mistress of the Pelican.”
Marie dropped a curtsy. Ambros felt amusement, since he’d not taught her any such graces. Maeve bowed from the waist, saying: “Nice to meet you. I’ve known His Excellency for a long time, though it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.”
“So I gathered...”
Ambros turned a chair to face them and seated Marie.
“So, Mistress: what have you been up to?”
She shrugged: “The usual. At the moment I am Seneschale of the Kingdom of Tir Bor.”
“This Kingdom...fascinating.”
“I hope,” she began, and paused; then she said: “I hope we may not take up where we left off.”
“Where did we leave off?”
“I don’t think we were on the best of terms when you stopped coming round. Back in Big Rivers, I mean.”
Ambros smiled, gently: “I am happy to leave the past in its place, Mistress. And we are not likely to cross paths very much. My life has grown complex...so much so that mundane affairs have already interrupted my vacation in the Current Middle Ages, and will again before the day is over. What I mean to say is, I won’t be around much, SCA-wise.”
“Oh,” she said. After a moment she said, tentatively: “Did...did you hear about Grim?”
“I did,” said Ambros, sobering: “I knew he’d die a hero’s death.”
“Who didn’t know that?” she asked: “He was always the first on the field, in real life as in the SCA. He should be remembered.”
Ambros smiled: “I asked Celia Chanter to write his saga...I think he’ll be remembered.”
“Oh. Yes, she’ll do him right.”
From the corner of his eye, Ambros saw Marissa and Alison exit the wedge tent. He glanced at Maeve, somewhat alarmed. When Randy also came out, and the three embraced in an intimate way, Maeve sighed: “I see there’s nothing new under the sun, Sir. Your latest household is no less scandalous than your previous one.”
Ambros shrugged: “I haven’t changed my spots, if that’s what you mean. However...”
“Yes, we agreed to leave the past in the past. I won’t make a fuss, not this time. Let’s just say I’ve learned to let consenting adults lie where they will...”
Marie stared speculatively at Maeve.
Ambros merely said: “That’s good. I’m glad.” He looked over his shoulder: “Randall? Would you bring out the coffeepot, please?”
“Right away, sir!”
Ambros strolled along the Merchant’s Row, which backed up on a shallow cliff that dropped down to the main road through camp. He wore about half of his armor; he had agreed to fight “byes” in the Baronial Championship.
He laughed inside at the variety of goods for sale, ranging from wooden bowls and flatware to complete outfits, up to and including mailshirts of various lengths. One man presided at a booth offering ‘SCA-legal’ helms and gauntlets. Interspersed with such medieval or “medieval-ish” offerings, people displayed everything from modern tapestries with medieval themes to plastic armor to children’s foam swords.
He found the path down the slope to the road; he negotiated the steepest part by stairs dug into the bank. The Main Gate lay ahead of him, with cars still backed up along the access road.
His MPS pinged. He touched it, activating his Shifter: “It’s us,” said Voukli’s voice in his ear: “We are walking in as though from that car park down the road.”
“I’m waiting for you...”
He stared up the road at the entry; the two people he was expecting came around the corner, and he saw that Averos also had come.
‘Neat,’ he thought.
Voukli led the way, a little ahead of the others. As she drew near he saw that she wore a nearly perfect (so far as he could tell) Mongol warrior outfit, circa 1200 AD. A slashing sword sat at her left hip and a short stabber at her right.
Arrenji wore her usual training armor: leather scale breast-and-back, with pauldrons that protected her thighs, and greaves with winged knees plus vambraces and gorget. She carried gauntlets at her belt, and her practice helm in her hand.
Averos had a long robe and hat, not unlike what students in Seventeen might wear at their graduations. He bore a tall staff and had a rapier-like sword at his belt.
“How do we look?” asked Voukli as she stopped in front of him: “Passable?”
“More than passable,” he replied. He nodded at Arrenji: “Thinking of trying out SCA combat?”
She laughed: “I’ll watch for a while first.”
“Wise,” he said. He turned to the sign-in table: “Guests of my household, day-tripping...non-member surcharge...Here are their IDs...yes, from out of the country...”
He paid their fees in cash, then led them along the road toward the stairs.
“Any customs we should know about?” Arrenji asked.
“Yes,” he said, and explained the SCA as quickly as he could, ending with: “Anyone wearing a metal coronet like this one,” he tapped his own: “gets a short bow like this. He demonstrated, then said: “That should be sufficient...I’ll point out to you the Prince and Princess. They ought to get a slightly deeper bow, endaxi?”
They agreed, with some amusement. Voukli said: “Yes, we get that it’s a game...”
“Also a performance; keep that in mind.”
Averos nodded: “I must, to some extent, act like the scholar I am dressed as!”
“Exactly,” said Arrenji.
They arrived at camp.
Ambros immediately began to don the rest of his armor. He did certain specific stretching exercises with each piece he put on. “I oughta remember to do these when I’m armoring for reedsword play in the Commonwealth,” he muttered.
A herald—not Lady Lucy—came to the field and let cry: “Here are the pairings in this the semi-final round of the Baronial Championship tournament at the De Clare-Marshall Memorial Tourney: Lord Tancred of Ravenser meets Randall, man-at-arms to Viscount Ambrose. Sir Banquo of Valley’s Heart has the bye, and will meet Sir Ambrose in the bye fight. Randall and Tancred take the field! Ambrose and Banquo, arm and stand ready!”
Ambros fastened his gorget and lifted his helm. He shook the camail into position and donned it, then picked up his full gauntlets and rattan longsword.
He stood by the Lists watching as Tancred took Randall apart.
‘That’s about what I expected. That Tancred is a hot young stick.’
He strolled out to the field when called by the Herald. Sir Banquo nodded at him and said: “No shield for this fight?”
Ambros laughed: “I’ll go get one, if you prefer...”
“No, Sir. At your pleasure.”
Ambros bowed slightly, took a guard: “Posta de Donna” from Fiore.
The Herald began the ritual: “My lords and ladies, here in this semi-final bye fight in the Baronial Championship do meet in honorable combat: Viscount Sir Ambrose...and Sir Banquo.
“My lords: salute the Prince and Princess of the Heights...you may salute the one who inspires you this day...salute you each your noble and honorable opponent. On your honor and at the Marshal’s command, you may begin.”
The Herald left the field with alacrity as the marshals of the field spoke quietly: “Sir, are you ready?”
Ambros and Banquo each replied in the affirmative.
“Then lay on!” the marshals cried, banging their staffs together.
Ambros let his shoulders slump, dropping his sword into “Boar’s Tooth”. Banquo drew a deep breath and charged.
Ambros spun around the man and hit the back of his leg as he passed. Banquo turned on his toes and dropped to his knees. Ambros approached within distance and cut repeatedly at his opponent: headshot, ribs, kidneys on the offside. Banquo blocked them all with minimal shield movements.
Ambros felt a hard shot to his thigh and dropped to his knees in his turn. Before he could react, Sir Banquo began a barrage of blows, which Ambros was hard put to block.
He tried to strike above the shield, repeatedly, and once below, whenever Banquo slowed; each such attempt resulted in greater speed from his foe. Finally, in the midst of a particularly relentless series of blows, Ambros cried: “Hold!”
Banquo stopped and said: “What is it?”
Ambros laughed: “That was a badass barrage, and I’m feeling a sting in my ribs,” Ambros patted his left side: “...so I know at least one of those blows landed. Well done, Sir!”
“Sir, no blow I cast at your body could have possibly been hard enough...”
Banquo was sincere; Ambros could tell. Nevertheless, he said: “Nah, I don’t believe that. I believe the burning in my ribcage. GOOD!” He shouted the last, and fell dramatically over on his side.
The marshals stepped in: “Are you each satisfied?”
“Yes!” Ambros said, insistently.
“I must be, as my opponent is an honorable man.”
The Herald cried: “Victory to Sir Banquo. Let the finalists prepare, and take the field in...” The herald looked to the Baron on his High Seat, who signalled, all five fingers spread.
“In five minutes!” the Herald finished.
Ambros and Banquo embraced, as was customary in that Kingdom. Banquo followed him over to his camp, and they shed their helms.
“What do you know about this guy Tancred?”
“He’s good,” said Ambros: “I fought him at a practice, and we had slew of double-kills. I beat him two out of three by trickery. You know William?”
“Porthos’ Squire,” he nodded: “Damn good.”
“Tancred is in that league.”
“Really? Okay, I’ll...”
The Herald called the fighters to the field.
“Well, that took a while,” said Ambros, half an hour later. Tancred had prevailed in the customary best-of-three final, but it had been a grueling affair, neither combatant able to establish dominance. Tancred had resorted in the end to a tricky blow that Ambros had showed him at practice not long before.
Banquo and Tancred stood in the center of the Field, laughing and gesturing. When they finished, Banquo strode over to Ambros and entered the camp at his gestured invitation.
“Okay, you’re right. That guy’s good. Would you speak for him?”
“What, you mean in Chivalry Council? Sir, I barely know him. And this is a one-off event for me. My mundane duties...”
“Gotcha. I’m gonna make a few calls. I’ll get back to ya.”
Ambros nodded, somewhat puzzled: “Sure.”
Baron Darien visited the camp a little later. He began with: “A moment of your time, Sir...” and they had a quick private chat behind the tents. Then, as they walked back into the dayshade, he said: “Would you entertain the notion of fighting byes for us, yet again? The ‘George Silver Cut and Thrust Prize Tourney’ is next up.”
The sun had come out again, and canvas steamed all around the List field.
Ambros looked at Arrenji: “Maybe you’d like to try this out? Oh, right. Baron Sir Darien, this is my mentor Magistri Arrenji Athenini.”
Darien bowed and Arrenji saluted.
“Your...mentor, you say?”
“My teacher in the arts martial, and also mentor in other ways. Her title comes from a different system altogether, so perhaps you won’t want to herald her so...”
Darien said: “As you wish. If she is your teacher, she can surely handle herself in this tourney.”
“Sounds like fun,” said Arrenji.
Voukli rolled her eyes.
Ambros stood by Arrenji as she waited by the field: “This is a new experiment in SCA combat, called ‘Cut and Thrust’. I know, what else can you do with a sword? But that’s what it is...some have called it a compromise between armored combat and Rapier. Do what you would do in a practice at Red Skolo: no deliberate injuries, no grappling or tripping.”
“You take all of the fun out of it,” she said, laughing: “Endaxi, no ballistic stuff!”
Arrenji came off the field after the semi-finals, doffed her helm and laughed: “Some of those people are pretty good!”
“Yes, they are,” said Ambros: “But you are not fooling anyone: everyone in that competition knew you could easliy have won. You noticed they started heralding you as ‘Magistri’ after the first round?”
She shrugged: “I do this as a vocation, and if I screw up I might die. It’s not a fair fight if I go all-out.”
Darien appeared at her back, looking puzzled. Then he shook it off and asked if Arrenji could stay around for Court: “I’d like to give you a token of our appreciation...”
Arrenji looked at Averos and Voukli. Voukli made a few handsigns, saying in effect: “We’re pushing the limits here.”
Arrenji nodded: “Sorry. My friends and I have to go soon. Give what you want to give me to Ambros, and he’ll see that I get it.” She smiled dazzlingly, charming the Baron: “Don’t think me ungrateful...I appreciate it, I do...”
Darien withdrew, thoughtful.
Sunday evening rolled around.
The “prize court” had included a couple of surprises. When all but a few of the triple-dozen prizes of many sorts for many contests had been handed out, Prince Andrew and Princess Alma arose: “My lord Baron,” said Prince Andrew: “We have a bit of business, so We must take back this court from you for a few minutes.”
The Baron bowed, the Baroness curtsied, and they sat down, the Baroness looking curiously at the Prince. Ambros and the Baron, having been consulted by phone earlier in the day, knew what was about to happen. Ambros stood up, grinning. Several other Knights also rose and began to walk towards the thrones.
His Highness gestured at the Herald behind the thrones. That worthy called out loudly: “Let the members of the Order of Chivalry here present attend His Highness.”
When the dozen or so Knights attending the event were kneeling before the thrones, the Herald cried: “Let Squire William Helmsworth attend Their Highnesses!”
The puzzled Squire knelt before them. The Prince and Princess held hands, and each of them took one of William’s in theirs. Then the Prince said: “By order of Their Majesties King Alaric and Queen Emma, I hereby place you on Vigil to be entered into the Order of Knighthood. Go and consider this offer, and answer to the King when he next calls you forward.”
The crowd cheered loudly.
William, somewhat stunned, rose and bowed. Porthos and another knight drew him aside and spoke quiety to him.
The Princess said: “Gentlemen, you are not dismissed.” She gestured to the Herald who said: “Let Tancred of Ravenser attend their Highnesses!”
The Prince repeated the charge, putting Tancred on Vigil for Knighthood. The cheers were, if anything, louder yet.
The Knights rose and gathered around, congratulating the two young men.
After a couple more prizes got passed out, including one to Ambros, the court drew to an end. Kim won a small prize for third place in Novice Archery.
The herald cried: “Their Highnesses declare this court closed! Go forth and revel!”
The crowd cheered and then slowly dispersed.
A large group gathered around the fire in Ambros’ camp. Three of the five newcomers who’d slept in his dayshade over the wet night on Saturday were still hanging about. Allison and Marissa sat on either side of Randall, which he didn’t appear to mind at all.
The ladies who had aided him in dealing with the drunken kids on Thursday night had joined the group around Ambros right after Court. They’d been surprised by the Barionial awards they’d recieved, and more than surprised when the Prince and Princess called them back and awarded them Arms.
Sir Porthos and Sir Banquo arrived, addng to the festive feeling.
“You, Randall!” cried Porthos as Ambros got him a chair.
“Sir?” Randall replied.
“Congratulations on your victory in the wrestling competition!”
Randall grinned: “Thank you, Sir. I owe it all to my Spath—sensei, Ambros...and to Fiore dei Liberi.”
Porthos guffawed: “Oh, you’re studying that are you?”
“Indeed he is,” said Ambros.
Randall got another chair from the kitchen area for Banquo.
Banquo slapped Ambros on the shoulder: “Too bad about Duke Thomas.”
“What was bad about it?” Ambros asked, with a lifted eyebrow.
“I thought you got him a couple times there...”
“I am not displeased with second place,” Ambros shrugged: “I acquitted myself as well as I could have wished for, and the second prize is very nice.” He lifted the bronze axe from where he’d stowed it beside his seat.
“True that.”
Banquo, it turned out, had a deep bass singing voice, and sang several songs, mostly filks of actual medieval tunes with SCA adventures as their new lyrics.
Ambros overheard Donny Jensson asking about “documentation”.
Allison spoke to Ambros: “But not everything in this camp is—strictly speaking—copied from some known medieval object...or is everything...”
“No,” Ambros said: “I’m not here to be an academically accurate representation of the Middle Ages. For one thing, that changes. I mean, I recall being told in no uncertain terms that: ‘Knitting is not period to the SCA’s timeframe.’ Well, it is and always was. Nobody had done the least research on the question yet, at that time. So then somebody found a reproduction of a painting from the 1400s that showed the Virgin knitting.” He shrugged: “We learn more every year, and so do the more respectable historians in the universities. And these trunks and footlockers, where I hide the sort of stuff one wants to have around, but which doesn’t fit the decor, so to speak...they are at least ‘medieval-ish’...right?”
“Sure...but then, what are you doing?” asked Allison: “If not a ‘perfect’ encampment, like some of the ones I saw around the List Field?”
“Me? I came here to fight a bit—mission accomplished—and to play a part in that improvised performance piece I mentioned on Friday.
“Now...” he paused, then said: “For a lot of people, the SCA appeals to the desire for a ‘golden age’, which, with few exceptions, never existed...But many people here—me included, at times— also celebrate the better aspects of the warrior culture of the middle ages. Among other things we celebrate those memories of good lordship, whether memories historical or fantastical, as have survived the years since heroes like William Marshall and such men walked the earth. Bad lordship we mostly leave aside, along with plagues and religious wars.”
Donny said: “People keep talking about Marshall and de Clare, de Clare and Marshall. I listened to three people argue for half an hour about whether this Marshall guy would or wouldn’t have done some silly thing...something about...” He shrugged very elaborately: “...I can’t even remember. How would anyone know?”
Sir Banquo began a lecture on what was and was not known about William and Isabella, laced with frequent references to various documents from the time, and finishing with: “...and if The Marshall had not re-issued the Magna Carta several times during his Regency, we may not even have heard of it. It would be another footnote...a peace treaty between two batches of nobles who broke it within weeks of its signing.”
“I did not know that,” said Allison, soberly: “What a difference that would have made.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Porthos: “I shudder to think.”
Banquo chose that moment to begin a hilarious song about two knights chasing a hog around a small village, which had apparently actually happened at a large campsite at a big event back east.
Ambros emptied his beer cooler, and the party drank up all of the wine and spirits he’d brought along, as well. The food that Marie and Luisa had prepared went away even faster than the booze.
Sometime after midnight, the last guests left. ‘To bed,’ Ambros thought: ‘Tomorrow we tear-down!’
