Witch of the Silver Maples

[anirbas]

(a fairytale told through narrative verse)


She'd tried to put him out of her mind.
Courtly love rarely being less,
than adulterous, at best.
What had she been thinking,
the day she'd ran away,
from the royal retinue?

That she was bored to death,
tatting and stitching,
with the ladies in waiting?
Tittering about Sir This
and Sir That; and what the next
days glories, the jousting event might bring,
for the winning alpha male.

So, vexed to the point of tears,
or outright mutiny, from her
needle pricked fingers;
she'd chosen rebellion.

Slipping from the stuffy sitting room,
under the pretext of retrieving
a precious skien of thread of gold,
from her bedchamber.

Once there, into her wardrobe closet,
she had slipped. Felt her long fingers,
along the back wall, tripped a secret lever,
and out she went, through the opening,
the action provided.

Down. Down. Down the narrow,
stone paved, spiral staircase,
she had ran, to the exit door,
located at it's bottom landing.
Out of the darkness, into the light.
She ran, ran, ran with all her might;
across her private orchard and gardens,
to the gardeners' door, at the far end,
of the fragrantly blossomed expanse.

Her choice of clothing for the day,
now came in handy, and not by happenchance.
She had known, ere she'd awakend this morn,
this day, her boredom, would not be born.
So, she'd chosen a simple shift of green,
that might have been seen on any maiden;
if one paid not to much attention,
to the fine cut and weave of the cloth.

Her long curled tresses of titian,
that fell to her nipped in waist,
today, she'd wound and wrapped,
in a turban, the same shade as her shift.
Method to her madness, it was, her color choice.

So, into the tall blades of emerald grasses,
she did blend, when down onto her knees,
she went outside the small ironbound door,
and onto her belly, from there,
to roll down, down, down
the steeply inclined hill,
to the shallow, valley floor below.

Luck had been with her that fateful day.
When her tumbling came to a halt,
and up she sprang, heading into the tree line,
in her green dress, disappeared, free, gone.
Her flight unseen, without notice;
her precense not missed, for the moment...



Having craftily ditched the ladies in waiting,
she'd gone wandering and exploring,
of solitude, unafraid.
Which was unfashionable,
for a lady of gentry,
our heroine's present time;
this golden forgotten age.

For now, she had as yet to be history,
as she made the fringes of a copse
of elegant, silver leaf maples.
This, her favorite, of all trees.

Bark of straight, smooth, silvern trunks,
spreading into majestic crowns;
with small leaves, of forest green,
on one side, and silver, upon the other.
When the breeze blew, the effect was magical;
the flipping of the leaves, turning
the entire tree, to platinum.

Into the stand of maples, she did spin.
Her arms outstretched; her lips turned up,
into a peaceful but mischievious grin,
surrounded by beings far wiser and noble,
than her. Not caring, she'd lost her turban,
somewhere along her flightpath, her feet
moved of their own volition,
from the stand of trees,
into the sun shot, emerald glen.

Free of her responsibilities,
unfettered from the stern gaze
of the ladies in waiting-
she danced, finally able to breathe;
and her stabbed digits, no longer throbbed,
with a raw, life of their own.

Unselfconscious, childlike in her joy,
lost in her own, private, little world;
her titian hair turned to flames,
in the sunbeams; she jigged about
the secret glade, a veritable
picture of a dervish,
to the faint of heart
and superstitious.

Until she heard a discreet cough...

About she whirled,
to discern it's source,
tripping over, an unseen stone!
Falling unceremoniously onto
her blithering arse, in the process,
to right her lost balance!

In frustration, mixed with just a bit of fear,
with her hands she swept back
the mass of red-gold hair
blinding her eyes, whipped into her face,
with her ignominous fall.

To see just who'd spied and followed
her here of the king's men,
to her secluded glen.

A recalcitrant queen
in the woods alone,
would not be allowed,
could not be had!
It was unsafe!

Yet another report,
of her erstwhile trangressions,
by a self-righteous king's man!

Looking up, in shock and dismay,
she realized, this was not
a knight she recognized.
Should he be an enemy, of the king,
she'd just ignorantly, conveniently,
of herself, made a pawn...

A kidnap victim,
in this day and age,
could demand a high purse and ransom.
Be the victim a queen, royal favors, even!
The ceding of land, or surrender of a war...

Yes, she'd landed her blooming arse,
in a royal jam with a slam!
And who knew, what she'd cost
the kingdom in the process?




From her ignoble seat on the ground,
up, up, up she did look;
horsed as the stranger was,
on a tall, well made Percheron,
of dappled grey.

Attempting a fierce, imperious gaze;
one eyebrow cocked, haughtily;
his eyes she could not gain;
blinded by the sun sparks,
shooting and arcing,
from his silver armor;
his face she could not discern!

Sensing the fear within her being,
inspite of her fearless expression;
and the green fire in her eyes,
snapping and blazing,
at his univited trespass,
of her privacy;
the unknown knight,
attempted what he hoped,
was a reasurring smile.

At what he perceived to be,
a wily, seductive gitane;
possibly, a wood sprite;
or a harmless, forest maiden,
some Christian nobleman's
pagan plaything.

The latter was entirely possible,
from the cut of her clothes,
and the quality of it's thread...

Just a harmless female,
either way, taking unabashed,
innocent delight in the
maple bowered glade;
until made afraid,
by his horse and him.

He spoke in the mellow tones,
one would use, to ease a
fine-bred charger's ire.
"A thousand pardons, my lady.
I did not mean to frighten you.
But it would seem, I've lost my way,
in search of his royal highness'
castle and keep.
I wonder, would you be ever so kind,
as to point me, in the right direction?"

Regaining her feet, she hocked and spat,
at the silvern dappled charger's
broad, thick hooves;
for coming so close,
to trampling her.

Then spoke, in a voice laiden with disdain,
in a rough accent, she hoped sounded
at least, reminiscent, of a
lowly woodsman's daughter,
a simple commoner.

"I am no lady," she'd started.
Interuppted by him, rejoining,
"Well, I'd meant to give,
you the benefit, of the doubt, madam."

At which she'd smirked,
at the area of his yet to be seen face.
Still masked in a glowing aura and nimbus,
as he was, by the golden beams,
reflected from his armor plated chest.

"Mayhap, tis neither here nor there,
but how would I be knowing,
where the king's fancy castle is,
ne'er being out of this forest,
in me whole entire life? But,
me da, he goes that way, when
he takes his cuttings to
the castle, for barter and trade."


She pointed back, whence the way she'd ran,
not knowing how best and quickest,
to get him away from her.

Not trusting him, even now,
albeit he seemed a harmless knight,
looking to swear liege to her
embittered husband the king;
in an age-old war against
his country's enemies,
in which he'd lost his oldest
three sons. His only living heir,
the son she'd born him seven years ago,
within, a year, of their wedding.

And then, no more children, for her.
Not by her design. She, being the consort,
of a still excellent leader
and rarely out-foxed battle commander;
but one whose baby bringing
equipment, no longer worked.

When the babe had been weaned
from his wetnurse, her husband,
had taken her son from her chambers,
and into his, for his protection.

And though their sexual relationship
had been shortlived, he loved and pampered
her as a father would an only daughter.

And in return, she gave him
her honor and respect,
and never uttered a word,
of his impotence.

Letting the court tongues wag,
and blame the lack of continuing
male heirs issuing from her body,
on her, and her shortcomings;
not that of the king.

Afterall, she'd given his father,
and his country, at least one heir,
to pin their hopes for a bright future.

The knight and charger,
breasted and passed,
where the queen incognito, stood.
Heading in the direction
she'd pointed out of the glen.

The horse seemed to sense,
what the man, did not;
tossing it's magnificent
silvern head; bucking and tossing,
it's surprised rider, as easily
as twere he a child!

Then turning,
and cantering back,
whence his broad thick hooves,
had taken him.

To stop before
the now quivering,
frightened out of her wits,
attitudinal maiden;
not to rear and trample
her spirit from her body;
but to pay homage, to it.

For the huge, equine being
bent and went down on one knee-
a supplicant's bow,
in recognition,
of her hidden,
royalty...

[anirbas]

She'd stared, wide eyed, at the steed's
graceful, unexpected kneel.
Surprised at his well learned trick.

But nay, no less than his master!
As he now gained his feet,
from his disrepectful dumping;
by what he'd previously considered,
his loyal and best friend!

Striding huffily with indigation,
he addressed both she and the horse.

"Come, Magnum! Get up from there!
What in the name of all that's holy,
has she done? Spellbound you?"

Now, with the sun at his back,
she could see his eyes;
and thunderous they were,
pewter grey, sparked with
glints of icy hail,
as he next spake to her,
"Witch! Release my steed,
pawn of the devil! What in the name
of Harry, have you done to him?
He's acting like a blithering idiot!
A mere minstrel's nag, 'stead
the war charger he be! Or was,
before made into an impotent fool,
in passing you! I do not have time,
for such wizardy and necromancery!
I am to appear as the king's champion,
at the jousting tournement,
the day after this eventide.
Thereafter, to lead one of
his regiments in this bloody war!
So, free him, wicked Satan's bride!
Or I swear, I will tan your hide!"

At this, she giggled, then bent over,
grasping her knees, in a most inelegant guffaw!
"Sir, it is not your horse I fear,
being a fool, but you! And only a knave,
would lay hand upon a woman, be she
a simple woods doxie, or a lady.
Witchery! Wizardy! Necromancery!
Are all warriors, this superstitious?
Why, I can only be one, as the
other two, are associated with males!
But I assure, I am neither of the three,
in any way shape or fashion.
Your steed has simply rebelled
at having a clod for a master!
But, if it will help your situation,
and send you on your way,
I will give him his leave,
and maybe then, he will mind you."

So saying, she laid her slim hand
upon the horse's thickly muscled shoulder,
and spake, into his ear-
"Arise, Sir Magnum, of the War Horse Clan,
and be back about minding your master;
as I am sure he shall come to sixes
and sevens, without your guidance.
And thank you, for the honor,
you hath bestowed upon me."


At once, the mighty dappled silver
and grey charger arose,
from his former supplicant's pose.
Bumped his velvety black nose,
against his master's chest,
then turned and presented
his hindquarter's and silky
tale of ebony to the knight's view,
as away he walked,
to which she'd pointed, earlier.

Halting, just at the edge of the glen,
for his grounded rider and friend.

"I don't know what you did to spook him
into throwing me, then running back here
for that romantic display of lunacy
at your feet; but I'd like to thank you,
for slowing me further still, from my
journey's end, as now, I shall be forced
to walk the rest of the way to the castle!
Unless, of course, you can cause a stump
to appear, I may remount the tall beast, upon?
Should I lose, and dishonor both king and self,
on the morrow, from undue exhaustion;
the dishonor, shall also be yours, madam!
So, unless you want me to tan your cursed hide,
for spellbinding my stubborn steed,
into throwing me upon me arse,
I would strongly urge,
you get thee behind me!"

Before he'd finished his wordy tirade,
she'd already begun to back away from him;
and the ruination of her once
peaceful, well-planned,
day of escape,
from blinding boredom.

But his last threat and command,
had halted her in her steps;
she was afterall, first
and foremost a queen.

How dare an underling,
even an obviously,
vaunted knight;
speak to her, thusly?
She caught her tongue,
before she said,
"Cad, I could have your head,
on a silver platter,
upon my whim and will,
should I so desire..."

Speaking instead,
as she straightened her arm,
pointing her index finger at him,
"Dare move a step, or hair
towards me, much less lay hand,
upon my person,
and boils of such number
and magnitude of size;
shall definitely appear,
on that arse, of yours,
you so arrogantly prize!"

Having spake, round about she whirled,
running fleet and fast into the stand
of silver leafed maples
circling the glade.
Once more, gone,
disappeared,
it would seem.

To her surprise,
her words and speedy exit
causing his masculine laughter
to ring about the glen,
and follow her hasty retreat.

[anirbas]

...more to come, but, not this eventide...

[anirbas]

As away from her our knight did turn,
to follow in the footsteps
of his intuitive war steed;
who was even now, following
in the footsteps she'd
laid initially, 'ere she'd
made her mad dash from boredom.
A queen, not on the run for fun,
but instead, for solitude and peace.

Coming abreast of the broad withers
of the tall, silvern dappled beast;
out loud he thought, and talked
to him. Not this, a mindless
aberration; all solitary warriors,
speak thusly with their four
legged peers of battle.

"Magnum, what the devil possessed you, old hoss,
to pull such an undignified trick? Now, I could
understand if she'd at least been a queen!
But, a tarted up doxie? Forest scum and dross?
Or worse, a worthless heathen wicche?
Pull a stunt like that again,
and I will call in a priest
to exorcise your big arse,
my thick headed friend!
Now, do not think,
I don't understand the attraction.
She was afterall, a comely, striking wench!
But, in case you didn't notice
she's out of your league, comrade.
Not even a Centauress,
much less an equiness!
I saw an abundance of coppery hair,
I could see you mistaking, due to it's
thickness, a feminine tail of your own species,
but, how could you miss,
she had not four legs,
but two? What a hopelessly,
romantic beast, you are! Infatuated,
with a woman, a being, you can never have.
Being as you, are a quadraped,
not a biped, like me, on the other hand..."

The horse shook his shapely, large head
and flowing jet colored mane;
raised his matching shaded tail,
and shat, right there, in the trail.
Almost as if in physical answering,
of what he thought of his master's
meandering thoughts, spoken aloud.

Being of a good nature,
the walking knight,
even laughed out loud,
at this added slight,
to his day, of firstly,
losing his way;
then being thrown,
skyward, unexpectedly,
by his most loyal friend;
added to that, the threat of
boils to be raised upon his arse,
if he so much, as touched a woods doxie!

Out of the mottled shade
of the silver leafed copse
of maple trees, horse and man,
mosied, whither to shoulder,
amicable and amiable.
Finding one another's company,
quite agreeable,
to that of the jar and jostle,
of the courtly world.
So, they wandered and traveled,
gay blades for hire,
fearless, highly skilled mercenaries,
in the art of warring.
By high-kings, of many estates
and countries, highly paid;
to command armies, in the liege's name,
if not their own...


But, lately, they'd both entertained
fantasies of settling down, retiring.
Our knight had been battling in first
one war and then another, for a quarter
of a century. His first field of battle,
fought at the side of his father,
at the tender age of fifteen.
Learning the art of war
and the craft of being a mercenary,
at his pater's knee.

And Magnum, had been with him,
for a decade and half of another,
and was starting to feel his years,
even if his master wasn't...

In this frame of mind,
looking for greener pastures,
in which to lie, grow fat and fallow;
horse and man, had gone in search,
of one last kingdom to save,
before settling in,
for the autumn
and winter seasons,
of their shared lives.

Not in need, of what was on
the other side of the stone wall,
but in want of peace and quiet,
from the screams of the battlefield,
that can linger, in a warrior's mind,
long after the war is over.

But, of the wood's chatelaine,
he had to say, our knight's
thoughts circling back to her;
never, had one of her species,
reacted to his handsome self,
like that afore!

Roundly cursing him, to boot!

Worse, looking her over,
he'd entertained the thought,
of taking the time to seduce her,
in the emerald glade,
encircled by the full crowns,
of silver leafed maples...

Nay, an irate wench like that,
would only talk one to death,
before she allowed him to top her!
And he just didn't have time,
to do more than sport with a dratted woman,
much less, intellectualize, to gain her favors.

Even a being,
of such a comely-striking,
come hither mein.
What a specimen of her species,
she was! He'd give her that!

But no time today, to steal
the withy, witchee, wenchee's affections,
and depose her benefactor nobleman of them.
No, not a speck of extra time, today.
Nor, on the morrow for that matter.

For he had important business, at hand.
But, as for the morrow after that,
he knew where to start looking for her...

'Ere that day dawned, it just might
find him, combing the forest,
from day to darkening night,
in search of any errant sign
or whiff, of her rich vanilla
musk scented perfume.
Which had filled and over come
his senses, before she left him standing;
her rich odor, all that was left of her,
wafting in the air.

Rich, vanilla scented perfume?
Now, whom was more hopelessly
besotted, with her, Magnum, or him?

And how did an alledged wood cutter's dottir,
come by such an olafactory luxury;
much less, a shift of such finely woven
cloth, no matter, how simple, the cut?

Green. Green. Green as the grasses
had been about them, that silken
weave had been!
But no match, for the green fire,
of her fine eyes,
that blazed peridot,
with her ire;
at his disturbance,
of her personal space
and private dance of one,
unexpectedly.


Then, no more time had he, to ponder, the mystery
that was the green clad, woods doxie;
with a veritable cloud of loosely curled,
red-gold hair falling seductively,
to her nipped-in waist.
The kind of hair, made a man's
fingers itch to tangle
themselves, in it's
fiery wildness.

Ah, but here was something as lovely to behold,
as much as any comely, striking, hourglass shaped woman.
Coming to the point in the broad, shallow valley,
where his eyes could see what he'd initially,
been in search of--a well fortified, white stone walled,
castle and keep, with it's myriad outbuildings;
situated and ranging down the top, and
front side of a steeply sloped,
naturally, flat topped hill.

And every where, both hill and voluptous valley,
as far as the vista ranged and the gaze could view;
emerald grasses covered every square inch of acreage!

At the far end of the ancient wallow,
he could see preparations being made,
for the morrow's tourney events to come.

Carpenters put the finishing touches,
on the king's royal seating and watching box;
and the wooden risers with bench seating,
for the comfort of the commoners;
down either side, of the tournement field.

And behind, the royal box, stretched
colorful tents and banners,
as far as the eye could see.
This would be the quarters,
of the other competitors;
his erstwhile peers,
fellow knights and
battle seasoned warriors.

Gawking at the magical display
of the white stoned castle walls,
turned to softest, golden pink;
as though blushing at the westering
sun's last, warm kiss of the day;
our knight, headed in the general
vicinity, of the temporary,
tented city. In search of
his squire, whom he'd sent ahead,
this morning to handle the arrangements,
of finding his spot, within the
outer encampment.


Across the valley they walked, side by side,
a man and horse of countless wars,
both won and lost; but always for them,
paid for in advance; for there is no surety,
being a mercenary, you will be alive to enjoy
your hard earned treasure after the battle...

They skirted the hive of productivity
in it's end stages, at the hands
of the busy woodworkers.
And entered the fray of activity,
in the tented city
there beyond.

Our knight and Magnum passed stables,
and various knocked together wooden sheds;
from whence in the fire lit darkness,
armorers, practiced their worthy craft.
Beneath their capable hands,
new plate was shaped and molded;
or old plate was repaired,
healed of it's damages.
For the right sized purse, of course!

Even several taverns were scattered and set up,
about the perimeter of the leathern mantled city.
Tents themselves with benches and serving wenches
contained inside. And all the ale, beer, or mead,
a man could pay for and hold.

Not to mention, a willing slattern for the eventide;
for the right price, of course!
And it was in, one of these places,
designed to slake your thirst
and even something more;
filled with manly guffaws,
and high pitched giggles,
he found his missing squire.

His arse, seated upon a bench,
in front of a truncheon table.
A healthy, buxom blonde seated
upon each of his thighs,
a tankard of ale in front of him,
adding to the merry twinkle,
in his brew glazed eyes.

"Ludnog! I knew I'd find you here,
or some place like it, you son of a mongrel dog!"
Our knight called from the opening,
created by the tent flaps,
pulled back, up, and tied.

Ludnog, sent him
the glance of a rake, in greeting.
Then tittered to the fair haired tarts,
filling his lap, so voluptously; giggled
like a girl, and spoke to them, in a feminine,
high falsetto, "Oh, look ladies! Party's over!
For there at the doorway, hath arrived
my knight in shining armor!"

[anirbas]

Posthaste he shooed them from their perch
upon his legs; rose and stumbled gracelessly,
towards his lord and master; never minding
his close friend's higher status. For Ludnog,
had done well for himself serving as a
vaunted knight's, respected man and squire.

Reaching the pair, he addressed the horse, first.
Rubbing Magnum's velvety soft, jet muzzle,
Ludnog spoke to the steed.
"Magnum! You old son of a goat! I see you
managed to dodge your responsibilities, today!
What's a matter, boy? Is he gaining weight?
Getting to fat to ride in his dotage?"

Then Ludnog grabbed the footweary knight,
in a boozey, bearhug; clapping him,
hard on his back in the age old,
manly greeting. Our knight winced, still sore
from whence he'd taken a soar,
into the sky, earlier...

"Good to see you made it, old man.
Twas beginning to wonder did I need
to backtrack and lead you in,
to this veritable den of iniquity.
But, I see Magnum,
was looking out for you!"

The two men laughed heartily
at the joke, at our knight's expense.
Then Ludnog led him through the throng,
milling in and about the tented city;
to his own place to call home,
al beit, temporarily.

Rest. Rest he needed after his fall,
and subsequent hard landing,
from the mountain that was Magnum;
and the resultant, ensuing walk...

After aiding in the removal of our knight's armor,
Ludnog led Magnum away to the stables.
Promising to see to the battle charger's needs;
then return quickly with a trencher
of steaming, mutton stew
for his hungry master.

Good to his word, even inebriated, so he did.
Ludnog reappeared quickly,
with a trencher
of meaty, thick soup.

And so our knight,well cared for and fed,
fell into the pile of thick furs
that was to be his bed;
and slipped into the Land of Nod,
to recuperate for the morrow's tourney.

But, even in sleep his rest was fitful.
Trailed as he was through his dreams,
by a group, of identical, titian haired,
green eyed women, wardrobed in fine cloth,
the very shade of a sun shot vale;
as they cursed his arse with boils,
and told him to roast in hell!


'Ere the new day dawned with a beauty,
besides which a fair woman's would pale.
It found our sore knight snoring, loudly;
unaware of it's nectarine presence,
in the fast lightening sky.

But, that did not stop the tourney,
from starting without him;
as jousting, was the last listed event.
Saving the best event,
for the latter part of afternoon-
pitting not only man against man;
but charger against charger.

And then, let the feasting and dancing begin!
Such events always followed by
a rousing reception.
Of which, usually, our knight did forego.
Always, in lament of the courtly ladies...

Knowing his master's need for rest,
Ludnog woke him not up, until the last minute.
Seeing even in resting, the knight tossed and turned.
As though chased by demons from Satan's hell!

Our squire awaited, til there was just enough
breadth of space, for our knight to awaken,
be about eating and his morning pissing;
don his armor, grab his lance,
head to the stables, for his steed.

To saddle and mount up at the block
outside the stables, for just this purpose.
Then to warm up both horse and man,
before entering the fray
and holding sway,
with another pair,
equally worthy.
Before the grandstands,
and the watching box,
of their new king,
and his royal retinue;
and throngs of commoners,
lining both sides,
of the jousting avenue.

Ludnog had decked and adorned them both, well.
Our knight, his armor polished and shined,
to a blinding sheen;
(which is why jousting events, were held
in the latter part of the afternoon)
Magnum, beneath his black saddle,
a silken blanket scattered with
silvern stars and crescent moons,
spangled across a field of midnight blue.

Our knight's opponent and his charger,
awaiting the pleasure, of Magnum and his rider,
upon the flat, field of green at the far end;
in front of the king and his royal retinue's,
gilded and scarfed box.

Our knight had time to notice,
the queen's chair
sat devoid of a queen;
just a blank spot, beside his new king.

Then he spent the rest of his time
sizing up his opponent and his horse,
at the end of the field;
whilst the announcer,
droned through the blather
of announcing the event,
and the names of the participants
and their magnificent war chargers.

"...and Sir Rathnar,
Our venerable king's champion,
on Magnum!"

The scarf of vermillion dropped;
which is what the horses
had been watching and waiting for,
whilst their riders,
looked one the other,
up and down.

Off charged the silver dappled Magnum!
His wide, splayed hooves hitting
the ground solidly, with a spine jarring-
thud. thud. thud. thud.

The dual action of both he and his opponent,
a Roman nosed, mahogony Clydesdale,
causing the ground to tremble
neath the field of green.

As their rider's readied themselves,
and their jousting lances to hold sway,
and do the best they could to knock the daylights,
one out of the other, and unseat one,
or both, as the case maybe!

A flash of flaming titian hair
glowing in the buttery late noon sunlight,
as the queen slipped into the royal
viewing box, to reclaim her empty seat;
drawing Rathnar's gaze and stare,
from his pressing, and bearing quickly,
down upon him, task at hand...

WHAM!

Out of the saddle, our already shocked knight flew!
And landed hard, rolling quickly right,
to avoid being kicked in the head
for the second day in a row!

Shocked doubly and equally,
in his recognition of his new queen,
she, one and the same, as the wood's gitane!
As well, his first unseating, unhorsing, ever--
in his peerless career,
on the jousting field!

[anirbas]

...more to come...but, not this eventide...

[anirbas]

On her feet, hand to her mouth, vexious
the king's champion be harmed at her expense;
the queen watched as Ludnog loped onto the field.
Therefore to check and aide his master,
in regaining a standing position,
encumbered as he was,
by his weighty body armor.

Magnum joining them as the trio
left the green grassed field
to remount and prepare,
to start yet a second time,
and then a third.

Best two out of three,
winning the joust;
and a favored much sought after,
dance with the queen.

Ludnog aghast, but not agog,
at the unseating of his master
like a lance kicked dog; ribbed
him affectionately, as he helped
Rathnar to scale and regain
the mountain, that was Magnum.

Rath's eyes never left the flame
haired queen's, as he went through the ritual
of getting back on the horse,
he'd fallen off of, so gracelessly.

"Ah, so that is what has finally unseated
our dotty old Rathnar, Magnum. The sight of a
fain fair lovely, he cannot now, or ever have.
Never having had the need of one,
for more than an occasional toss,
in the first place."

But the look in Rathnar's eyes, was not one
of besottment, but of pure unadulterated rage!

His thoughts circling like viscious hounds,
let loose upon a fox-What the hell? Why had she
not her royal self declared, yesterday? Especially
after he'd declared whom he was and his intentions
within her kingdom? Had she a stake in who won
this jousting event? Was his opponent, her adulterous,
courtly lover? And him, she wished to see victorious
and leading one of her husband's regiments?
To keep him close at hand, and near to touch?

Was her placement in the glade just as he neared it,
by design and treacherery? Not happenstance?
Her mystery, and then timely appearance today
machinated, simply to un-nerve, unman, unhorse him?
Confuse him so with her subterfuge, he could
not hope to win?

Well, confused Sir Rathnar, was no longer.
And they didn't call him Sir, for naught.

He stared down the field not at her,
but his adulterous, fornicating opponent,
ready to hold sway with him once more.

And this time and the next, it
would not be Sir Rathnar,
hitting the greenly grassed moor!



Sir Rathnar, good to his inner vow
to himself and a stubborn willful character;
even faced with undue stress of an unexpected nature;
took out his worthy opponent in matches two and three
of the jousting match, quick as you please.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The mighty Percheron and the Clydesdale's
hooves did rumble.

WHACK! Wham! Bam!
Thank you, Madam.

And I need not tell you,
it was not our Sir Rathnar,
lord of the sword and the joust
denting the ground to a plethora
of jeers and catcalls,
in the next and last round.

As Lugnog proudly watched from the wings
of the entrance to the jousting field,
his master and a well lathered Magnum,
pranced down the hoof bruised
and torn field of green;
to stand before the royal viewing box,
to receive their hard earned accolades.

At this moment, a nod and a trinket
from the hand of his king;
signifying Sir Rathnar's jousting victory-
a heavy, silvern mantle brooch, crafted and shaped,
in the form of a dragon; traced with scales,
of glowing gold; gleaming set eyes, of garnet.

And from his new queen,
the former woodlands gitane,
he got no more than the tips
of her fingers lightly touching,
for but a moment in suspended time,
the sword hardedned palm of his upturned hand.

Peridot eyes, inscrutable. Not a scrap
of recognizement in them. She having recovered,
her fear of his injury at his first tumble,
from the gilded black saddle,
and mountain high, broad back,
of Magnum. And her perceived guilt,
it had been her fault, of her making.
Just as he'd prophesied, the day before...

But, for now, Sir Rathnar
had to content himself with but a touch,
from her slim hand, all things, being politic;
even in this golden, forgotten age.

Saving the ire of his black thoughts of her,
and her planned treachery, for the eventides'
promised victory dance and activities.

So, at her touch, he raised at her a sardonic brow,
masked the anger in his own eyes, as he inclined
his head at her royal gesture;
then swept from the field;
to join his faithful squire, awaiting there.
His broad shoulders, squared;
his back straight, belying the soreness,
throbbing beneathe the surface;
from the twin tumbles, he'd taken,
two days, in a row!

[anirbas]

"Ludnog", Rathnar bellowed. "Prithee find me
Magnum's horse linement. For aft, yesterday,
and this one, on top of it, I am in more need it,
than my winded, well worthed and bred steed."

Stopping the aforementioned equinic beast
at the mounting block; naught a bit more,
than a huge slice of an oaken trunk;
Rathnar dismounted,
and lit upon the ground, beside his
quadrapedically inclined friend.

Reaching round to rub the jetted muzzle,
of the silvern dappled, stallion, he added,
"But, first, see to Magnum. For were it not,
for this aging, son a goat's navigational
and charging abilties, no matter the terrain,
event, or unexpected duress, this victory,
nor the next allotment of a purse,
you expect of me, Ludnog, would naught be
attainable; much less, achievable."

Patting Ludnog's equally broad back,
though inclined to run to just a wee bit of fat;
Rathnar, verbally rambled further, to his squire's
now anabated surprise.

Leaving his man, for once, with his jaw dropped,
as the weary knight said, before heading to their
shared leathern tent-
"And after you rub me down with linement, old man;
you may lay out, my finest tunic, trousers, nay, what is it preferred at these royal receptions? Dratted hose? Yes, hose and boots, to match. Mayhap, the tunic,
with silver moons and stars on a field
of midnight blue, with black hose and boots?
What think you of that get up, old friend?
Good enough to claim a promised dance
with an adulteress, royal witch, masquerading
as a common, innocent wench?"

Then Rathnar was gone. No longer a victor,
just a tired man seeking a well deserved catnap.
Leaving naught of himself, but his words
hanging in the air, along with Ludnog's jaw, there;
freeing Magnum of the heavy, tooled black saddle;
ruminating out loud, about his master's
impending choice of action.
Seems the battlecharger, was both knight and squire's
favored and chosen sounding board and listener.

"Now, what do you make of that old sod,
after all these years of celebrating,
the eventide of his erstwhile victories,
with willingly paid to make you happy,
wenches and me?
Should the girls and poor abandoned me
be jealous, Magnum? Hath we been jilted,
cuckolded, by a royal enchantress,
our blind, foolish brother, cannot and never have?
She is a comely, striking bit of baggage,
I'll give her that. The king has good taste.
He chose well. Tis said, his son is the spitting
image of his pater; but for the flaming, curly,
locks of his mother...And already seats a horse,
quite well, as though born, in the saddle. E'on tho'
but a lad, of less than ten winters! What a fine
man, a boy like that shall make, someday!"

All the while, the man did speak aloud,
to the quadrapedic beast, noble and proud;
Ludnog, wiped the frothy sweat, from the velvety
silvern and pewter dappled hide.
Then curried Magnum up neat as a pin,
to a high sheen, once more and again;
with a stiff brush, just for this purpose.


Away our squire stabled the fleet charger
with a well won reward, an extra measure
of grain and barley; and a saucy, parting slap,
on Magnum's powerfully muscled, rounded haunch.

Then off strolled Ludnog,
to see to his napping master's
latest needs and care.
His mind still agog,
as though he'd downed
several tankards of grog!
Puzzling over Rathnar's request
of his finest wardrobe to attend
a royal reception,of the type,
he usually, abhorred.

Preferring the company of his manly peers;
his squire; his horse; and an occasional toss,
with a buxom, willing, well paid, slattern-
to that of rubbing shoulders at court;
surrounded by the royal retinue;
conscripted, prerequisite courtiers;
high born ladies in waiting,
waiting to wed and bed,
a willing, king chosen knight...
Breathing and choking in clouds of perfume,
worn e'en by the men, the royal fops and swains!
Lord This and Lord That!

No, to attend such a function,
royal invitation, or otherwise;
didst naught fit the pattern,
of his raucous, rowdy knight!
Not his and Magnum's, Sir Rathnar!
Dubbed by his equally fearless peers,
the Bloody Raven of the Battlefield!

For when Rathnar, showed up to hold sway,
and his warcry left his lips; then did,
the enemy fall; vanquished at the request
of his swift and fatally sure, sword;
or the ground pounding, mighty hooves,
of his magnificent, soldierly,
protector of a battlecharger.

No, our Ludnog, thought as he entered
the dark confines of the tanned leathern tent;
serenaded by the emission of growly snores,
from the slackened lips of the sleeping warrior;
this up and coming future scenario,
later upon this eventide, royal invitation, or no;
whilst entertainment, just in the thought,
of his master, brought low. Nay, e'en to the ground,
upon his cock sure arse, no less! In abeyance,
grounded by the glance, of a single maiden.

Nay, in this case, matron. A royal one, at that!
Such an envisioned fantasy would have brought
a tickle, to Ludnog's ribs. And added to his fodder
of subjects to tease and pick at arrogant, lovable
Rathnar's masculine pride and ego, with!

But Ludnog, saw nothing humorous,
in this unexpected situation,
betwixt and between his master,
and this lady of naught only gentry;
but naught less, than flaming, blithering royalty!

And she couldn't be, in this case, a simple princess,
the daughter of her well blooded father;
and therefore, honorably approachable;
and possible royal catch and dower,
to a lucky, well favored and blessed,
by the gods, mercenary knight errant...







Nay, my Rath, our Lug, continued, in his
vexious mental ruminations as he lit the fat wick,
of a stoneware bowl, half filled with tallow,
to dimly light his way, about the dark confines,
of the leathern tent.
My Rath, he thought- as he laid out his master's
requested wardrobe, accoutrement and accessories-
must chase a wicked dream that can only end
in a tragic nightmare, for both she and him!

But, ever obedient to his master's wishes,
if not respectful, except but rarely;
our faithful Ludnog, kept his thoughts to himself.

Not knowing, Rathnar did not wish
a toss and a tumble,
of the royal vixen,
ere this eventide's festivities,
were rolled about and in full swing and sway.

Nay, nay, our Rath, would remonstrate
with him and say-
he wished instead, to seek but a chance
to wrap his fingers about the column,
of her lovely, royally, adulterous neck;
it, his intention, to throttle!

Why, e'en now, my friends, our hapless knight,
dreamed of the fantastical event!
As from his irreverent dream,
of laying hands upon,
and choking the life from the
spellbinder's lips,
he awoke with a start.
As with her last, dreamed of breathes,
she prayed not for mercy, of him,
for her wretchedly beautiful, pampered life;
and adulterous, carnal knowledge,
of his prior, vanquished opponent;
thereby, treasonously cuckolding
her royal husband, his highness, the king!

Nay, she dreamspake, instead, unto him, Rathnar,
in a saucy, wenchy, wicche manner-
"Yes, my life, you may yet, steal from me.
But, whatever will you do about those
suppurating, pulsillanimous boils,
even now, growing upon your arrogant,
judgemental, witch hunting arse?
To bring trial and haunt your life,
e'ermore, e're you sit, til ye may die?
Knowing, you spared not the soul,
of the only being, e're able,
to lift the curse?
Choosing instead,
to blame her unjustly,
for tribulations, of your own making,
not and never, hers?"

Yes, on that note, Rathnar, awoke, with a start!
Sitting, then standing quickly up.
Hands reflexively moving to cup
his bum of their own volition.
Just to be sure it was a dream,
hoping naught to find, it was reality,
of the worst kind, irreparable.

Such actions causing from Ludnog's chest to rumble,
a great guffaw, of sputtering manly laughter,
from the shadows of the dimlit tent.
Whereby, Rathnar, was shaken, once more,
into jumping, with a start.
Not knowing, he was not alone...

Whilst in the ivoried towers, of King Broderick,
in the chambers of the royal consort and queen;
alone at her insistence before she was dressed
by her retinue of ladies in waiting
for the festivities, of the fast approaching evening-
A woman, paced the stone paved, rug covered floor,
as she pondered her guilt, in a hapless knight's
unseating and unhorsing, not once,
but twice, two days in a row!

What might her think of her,
she did not know. He a victim,
of her willful need, for a bit of
stolen space and privacy.
She feeling naught more,
than bird, trapped in a gilded cage.

[anirbas]

...more to come...ggglgggl...but, naught this eventide...

[anirbas]

A padded cell, not of her making.
A relcitrant throwback to her
royally dusty, Britannic grandmothers--
Craving something e're more,
than needling and tatting,
at a drattedly, boringly
insufferable tapestry.
Intrigue and adventures,
peace of blithering mind.
E're instead, surrounded by her retinue,
of twittering and tweeting,
ladies in waiting.
No less prisoners,
of their lifestations,
than she, of hers.
Given over, by their fawning,
lower kings' and myraid dukes',
of father's, to his highness;
to serve as ladies in waiting,
to his royal wife and consort.
Hoping in this, their last ditch effort,
not to mention, parental resort;
to gain groveling favor, with the high king,
at his court and in his stead.
And mayhap, for their daughters, unwed,
the happenchance to procure,
a king chosen and decreed marriage,
to one worthy of their own, high born blood;
an insipid, perfumed duke, or an honored warrior;
to bind, yet another, to his highness, vaunted will.


But, oh the day, our queen did rue,
she'd unhorsed, unmanned, and emasculated;
such a speciman of masculinity;
this man, called named Rathnar;
within the span of less,
than forty-eight hours,
not once, but, regrettably, twice.
His name and feats of which she'd heard
bandied about the table,
(the eventide, of her undiscovered quest)
shared by the king's men,
and her, at his highness request;
bespoke of a quiet, closely vested man.
Given to scholarly pursuits,
when not embroiled up to his mercenary neck,
in the wars, birthed by high and low kings, alike;
not and ne'ere of his making.
But always, his a royal ruckus and a mess,
to clean up, and put to rest;
if necessary, from the back of his loyal charger,
the magnificent Magnum.
With a cling-cling-whack!
Cling-cling-whack!
Singing from his trusty pair of matched swords!
The finest e're wrought;
of East Orient, designed and fired, steel!
By and at the hands, of a magically gifted,
Asian armorer, practicing a well kept,
secret of the Vulcan craft;
passed from a father,
to a single, chosen son;
no matter the male number,
that may call him, father.

Yes, impressed she'd been, hearing odes and tales,
by the king's chosen men;
to this Knight, this Sir, named Rathnar;
his fast and merciless, as lightning,
battlecharger, Magnum;
and the matched pair, of swords,
the Raven, affectionately named, the Twins;
recounted and retold about her husband's
table, raised royally, upon a dais,


And tenfold mortified,
not only, in the solitude,
of her sought for seclusion,
in her secret, silver crowned glade;
al beit, accidently, she'd been the erstwhile
cause and private witness,
of his unseating.
Far worse, and yet again, accidently,
and e're more far and worse;
also the cause, of the one and only,
public unhorsing, of his otherwise,
stellar, jousting career.

[anirbas]

These thoughts and more circled and spiraled,
round and round, a vexious whirlwind,
twirling about her royal titian haired cranium;
as she opened the door to her inner sanctum,
and called for her ladies in waiting;
loitering, jovially teasing, one another,
in the antechamber, of her highness, quarters.

And betwixt and between, the nine of them,
counting her; silks, satins, and fur
did fly, furiously, from chest after chest;
thrown, e're discarded, onto her bed;
with the uninhibited delight, only their species,
can upon a wardrobe choice, confer.
Even a tomboy queen, whom but hours before,
had masqueraded, as an enchantress of a gitane.

She, alas was settled and bedecked,
in a simple, shimmering shift
of silvered olive;
tube slim, pointed long under sleeves;
overlaid, and draped with
deeply belled,outersleeves,
of the same silken hue.
About her shapely hips,
a girdle of electrum, traced with silver;
from which flowed the skirt of the shift,
to the floor, hiding her silk covered toes.

Her glowing red gold tresses, left loose,
hanging down her back to her waist.
Undressed and unadorned,
save for one side, swept up and away,
from her face, held in place,
by a comb, crafted in the form
of a silvern dragon.
It's crenallated scales inlaid
with dark sapphires and emeralds;
it's oddly light eyes,
set with amethyst.
A gift, from her husband, King Broderick;
along with the slim silver chain, about
the graceful column of her throat, from
whence a sapphire and emerald dragonfly,
did against the warm, beiged ivory flesh,
of her chest, alight and lie;
above the v-shaped plunging decoulletege,
of the silvery olive shift's tight bodice.


King Brod being an enamoured collector,
of all objects de dragon.
It never having been proven, but rumored,
he was the distant descendant,
of the darkest of ages,
last known, Dragon Hunter.

And so, with those whom of him,
had curried his royal favor,
he also gifted and bequethed,
presents of draconic images,
statues, and jewelry.
Having read in a monk translated manuscript,
of the barbaric dark ages; dragons were once
considered powerful protectors; and harbringers
not of evil, but rather luck.

True or not, King Brod's collectors' fascination,
of all things, dragonian; stood him in good stead.
As for decades now, many men; amongst them,
both low and high born kings; to him, did pay heed;
in tribute and with rich tributary...

But, there she stood, our Queen Lucinda;
wearing the the rich trappings, of her
husband's impotent affections;
as her ladies in waiting, did ooh and ahh;
over the vision, she could but be,
if only she replace the stern look of entrapment,
upon her face, with a smile, instead of a grimace!

As far be it for them to understand,
how a king promised dance with such a man,
of such ghastly handsome mein-
jet brows and unruly, long hair, that fell,
to the tops, of the broad expanse of his shoulders;
like a raven's ebonied feathers;
eyes of mercury, liquidically changing,
with his moods, from warm pewter to the chilled
fire of platinum, when he became enraged;
or calculated a next, all important move.

So, our gracious ladies in waiting it did behoove;
this bitter, dour, persimmon of a sour mood,
their queen, persisted in wearing,
along with her royal trappings;
as down, down, down the staircase,
descending into the great hall;
at last, she and they, made their way;
to the festivities, in full swing and sway.
Entering the dancing and crushing fray,
of the celebratory, commingled bodies,
of commoner and courtier, alike.

[anirbas]

And of course, wouldn't you know it?
The Raven, was already there.
Seated in all places, as befitting,
one of his station; as one of the king's
top war advisors and battle leaders;
to the direct left, at the table,
on the royally raised dais, of
highest of kings, Brod.

Her seat, to the king's direct right,
of the long, magnificently
clothed and set truncheon table;
though she occupied it not,
was held by her flame haired son,
at the moment. Her arrival,
his mother's summoning his exit
and impending bedtime.
His magical time, at his brave and crafty
father's side, for now, suspended;
e're he drift, to the Land of Nod.
He was afterall, an unblooded lad,
of less than ten winters.
This child, his mother,
had named Brodson,
at his birth,
in honor of his father.

No matter the name,
history at a later date,
might log him under...
The king's gaze was held,
by this dear, sweet, rare child
of his heart, of his golden years.


Rathnar's sardonic, thunderous gaze,
was held by her's, the fair Lucinda's;
walking at the point, of a column,
of beautiful women;
come now, to join the men,
of high birth or deeds,
in celebration, of the king,
and his newest acquisition,
the Raven of the Battlefield, Rathnar...

He lost her solemn eyes,
when she disappeared from his view,
to circle the dais; then mount it from
steps, to the back of the king's chair,
used just for this purpose.
And though she stood two bodies down,
from his position beside his new king;
her hands upon the shoulder's of her son,
as she informed him of the late hour,
and he flashed his mother a young look, most sour;
all Rathnar could smell was the light,
smoky scent of her perfume; wafting,
circling, spiraling up his nose.
Threatening to curl his unruly hair,
if it didn't curl his toes!

Drat! He thought, to himself, idly.
How was he to give her the sound cursing,
she so richly and roundly deserved;
privately, in public, as they danced;
for his unmitigated unseating not once, but twice?
If she were going to smell like that,
standing beneath his chin, against his chest;
how would he keep whits, about him,
to chew her up, and out her spit?
For conspiring in adultery,
against her honorably, royal husband?
With such a blithering dolt,
no less, than his jousting opponent?
The meatheaded clod of the sod?

She'd married well, but after that,
her taste must have gone to h*ll in a purse!
Then King Broderick, touched his arm,
and Rath had to fight not to jump;
as the other man's action, nicked the skin,
of his oscillating thoughts.
"Prithee, Sir Rathnar, Ravenlord, of the Battlefield;
take this, the hand, of my beauteous wife, Lucinda;
and with her, take your leisure,
of a well deserved, victory dance!
Dance more, if you like. One must at some point,
become bored, with the company of men, yes?"


"I would warn, you though, fain fair lady,
hath a ferociuos mind and quick wit.
Sharp as the double edged,
twin swords, you so highly favor,
on the battlefield. Me, give me
a man's weapon any day! A nice heavy,
broad sword for chopping off heads!"
King Brod, chuckled magnanimously,
at his own twin jokes, as he turned
his doting attention
back to his son.
Patting his namesake,
upon the head, afore, one of
the high born ladies in waiting,
dragged the recalcitrant
lad, off to bed.

As Rathnar stood
and gripped his queen's hand,
in his sword hardened palm and fingers;
and dragged her off the royal dais,
towards the richly marbled,
softest petal pink and black, parquet floor,
of the great hall; the king had commanded
be dragged all the way, from Italy;
then craftily laid, by master masons,
from the same country of origin,
as the stone. It gave the hall,
the illusion, of being set,
square in the middle,
of a chessboard.

And to the mid-point, of this chessboard,
did Rath drag, the solemn, dour faced,
Queen Lucinda. No less, sour of visage,
than that of the Raven. Him, with his
jaw set; his teeth clamped down hard;
lips compressed in a thin, narrowed line;
his eyes, cold as chilled platinum.

From the twin looks on their mazards,
one might hath thought this pair
fallen into dual hazards--
about to attend a twin execution!
Theirs! Instead of execute,
a simple dance step,
or two, or three,
as the case,
maybe...


At this nexus, the music of the minstrels,
and musicians, ended; the last strains, dying away,
in the amber glow of the candlelit, great hall.
In the long moments, it took the artists,
to recover and regroup to play the next
gavotte or rondoley; the sour faced pair,
stood still as the stone,
their well shod, feet were planted upon!
Neither, willing yet, to look at the other.
Not yet, not this quiet minute.

He stared, eyes of steel skies,
over the loosely long, springing curls,
of her titian tressed head.
But, with a somewhat confused look, in his peepers.
As though, a strong man, fable-ly mired,
in sugar fine, cystalline, quicksand.

Beneathe his chin, she took in his fine mien,
with the fire banked, in her wandering,
sad, green glance. The long tunic, comprised of
of silvern banded shield,
bisected by a sword of steel;
crescent moons and stars, speckled
the four quadrants, of it's surface;
fielded on the finely woven cloth,
of midnight blue. A black leathern mantle,
held about his shoulders, at his neck,
clasped, with the dragon brooch;
gifted by his new king.
Black hose and leathern boots,
completing his wardrobe.

She noticed the metal linked belt,
about his waist, missing from it's
paired sheathes, his infamous
pair of swords, the Twins.
Those would be against the wall,
somewhere, laid out, on a groaning,
truncheon table, with the other
men's weapons of choice.
Out of the way of preening, prancing
and with the ladies, dancing;
but, ne'er the less, handy,
should the need arise,
should the men, be called to duty,
if attacked, as they enjoyed shared revelry;
in fickle surprise!
By the nemesis, of royal King Brod;
the most feared, low-king, in all the land;
and it's surrounding environs;
none other than,
Lord Ethelrod.

Into this momentarily, frozen tableau,
of light and myriad colors,
of the silks, satins, and dark leathers,
of the couples whom waited,
with bated breath.
What they yet awaited,
did begin, again-the music!

Rathnar took Lucinda,
literally in hand,
as he gripped her waist,
now, along with her hand.
Which he'd continue, to crush,
in his, unbeknownst to him,
as they'd both awaited,
the next strains of musicing.
So held, in his strong embrace,
Lucinda, was swept across the dancefloor;
as figuratively, as Rath was by her,
scented, visceral precense,
in his battle hardened arms.

What a vision, they made!
She, with her red-gold hair,
and flowing, silvery olive shift;
girdled in electrum traced silver.
He, his unruly mane,
jet black as raven feathers;
in his stately, midnight blue tunic,
starshot, with silver.
The sweep of his mantle, alternately,
flowing outwards from their
dance entwined, bodies,
then wrapping about them,
hugging them, in it's volume of
black leathern folds.

After a moment, Rath regained his senses,
overcome by the wift and waft of her
lightly smoked and musked, vanilla scent;
and spake, firstly,unto her;
a harsh whisper,
into the fine shell of her ear.
The one, her titian hair, was drawn
back from, by the bejeweled,
silvern dragon comb.

"Witch! Spellbinder! Adulteress, royal harlot!
Dare you sweep so low, as to unseat me,
and therefore, harm king and country?
Only to bind that foolish knave,
of a knight, your clodpated lover,
to your side, closer?
Enchanting pondslime of the forest,
that you are, did you think,
a man like me, to be overcome,
by spells of happenchance,
spun by a comely-striking,
wicked tart of a wench?"

Lucinda stiffened in his arms.
No longer, drifting in his manly charms;
rather than worrying, about her accidental,
embarassingly innocent, twin unseating
and unhorsing; of such a powerful,
venerable, highly paid, sought after
warrior, such as he.

Board stiff, though her body was,
Lucinda never missed a step,
the war toughened, battle ax, led.
Rath took her momentary silence,
for shame, having been found out,
in her royal treachery;
made the mistake,
of grinning over her head,
momentarily.

[anirbas]

*okay...okay...going back over this to transfer it here, I see it needs LOTS of editing...*

[anirbas]

As thoughts of umbrage swirled,
in the honor deposed, queen's fiery cranium!
How dare he speak to her, thusly?
In such a tone and such an offhanded manner?
Befitting that of the low born!
Not a highly blooded, mercenary sir, knight errant?
Bent on seeking favors, from her royal husband;
not beheading, for his impertinance, to her.

Prithee, what dratted nonsense,
was the obviously, mead, ale, and spirit besotted,
village idiot, prattling on about, anyway?
Imagined visions of witches, again?
Fantasies of her having a royally,
adulterous affair, cuckolding her husband
but royally, with Sir Icabod, no less?
Her own littermate and brother!

Clearing her throat, delicately,
Lucinda raised her head and gained,
the icy platinum, of Rathnar's righteously,
outraged, downward looking gaze.
The green fire in her eyes,
banked no more, tilted to the floor.
Nay, her orbiters blazed valient peridot,
tinged with just a bit, of humor,
as she spake and said-

"Prithee, Sir Knight, do you not hear
the knocking at this great hall's oaken doors?
Is that not your sign, your village has arrived,
to summon back amongst them, their cherished idiot?
I'm sure we havn't the slightest idea,
of that of which you speak.
And I would have you remember,
it was you, whom first startled me!
Upon my own land, I might remind you!
Not and never yours! No matter how high
the coin, my liege and husband may pay you,
to fight with him, amongst, yet more, doomed men,
in his tiresome battles!
Which, will ultimately get him, and my son, killed!
Mayhap, even the mighty, high flying Raven...
And then what? Who will bear an heir, to this
vaunted line, in the twilight, of it's descendance?
None, for there shall be none, left to leave
it's last legacy, in a feminine vessel!
Prithee, this maiden does yet again, beseech thee.
What the drat, nay, what the dratted h*ll,
are you rattling the teeth in your obtuse,
obviously empty head, about?
If you watch it not, Sir Knight,
I shall have your head, upon a silver platter.
No matter the rumor of your battle prowess.
My kith and kin, is an excellent warrior, too.
And shall fight along side, you, whenst you go.
Whither, he lost, the jousting event, or not.
This match, was not a deciding factor,
in the choicement, of either of your's
warring position, with the king's army.
Nay, today, was not about your career.
But mere entertainment; provided
to draw you out, at the whim of
an old, romantic fool, in love
with all things, dark and older,
than he. And who better to display,
such an event, of old skill for him?
Than the two best, in his land?
My respected brother and witless,
clueless you! Otherwise, had you not
thought a position, on the line, humble you,
might not have complied, with his wishes,
to put on such a royal spectacle,
at his whim and will,
royal, or otherwise!
Nay, no small wonderment, you prattle
on and on, about witches. Twould seem,
thou hath been struck dumb and charmed,
by one of such magical mein. But, certainly,
not and never, me!"


Rathnar, danced on at her upbraiding,
and rightful comeuppance of his political gaff.
But the fire of platinum light in his eyes
faded to warm pewter;
as he sheepishly,
heard the truth of his mistake,
ring bright and shining,
through the acidic
spew of her irate words.

Now, what was he to do with her?
Mayhap, not the adulterating witch,
he'd thought her, firstly;
but a spellbinder, none the less!
And one with the weapons,
of the idiotic verbal trangressions,
he'd just slipped and heaped upon her,
to cause his royal downfall!

The Raven looked at Lucinda, blankly.
Overcome and overpowered, accidently,
by her, once more. This time, in the middle,
of a pink and black, parquet dance floor!
This made thrice,
he thought, third time's a charm!
Soon, betwixt and between,
my goose is cooked,
I will be done.

As he dangled by a thread,
in the fiery green web,
of her angry eyes;
she impudently grinned at Rath.
Her smile, hiding no less,
her now, well deserved,
righteous ire and wrath!

[anirbas]

The Raven took a deep breath,
as he spun Lucinda, about the floor,
then spake, "Nay, you are wrong, Your Highness,
if you think, by you, I am naught spellbound.
Did naught but a glance, unseat me, nay once,
but twice? How could you say, naught and never,
bewitched by you? Even my battle scarred steed,
feel under your spell of enchantment. Never seen
the beast act such a fool, in his entire career
as a horse, matter of fact."

Lucinda narrowed her green eyes,
cattily staring upwards,
into his of pewter;
neck tilted backwards,
so as to glare at him,
and spake, thusly.

"Flattery, will get you no where, Sir Rathnar.
Did you think to charm your way, so prettily,
out of your beleagured, political gaff?
Do you think me, a blithering, mental milkmaid?
Easily soothed, with disarming, verbal trinkets,
after your impugnment of her honor?"

Rath interuppted her withy flow,
a broad smile, upon his lips;
as he interjected,
"I am unaware, if you are a blooming idiot,
Your Highness, as I do not know you, that well.
But, I might ask, what was a woman,
of such high born station,
and therefore, vulnerable to ransoming;
in this age of war and battling;
doing out wandering, in a silver mapled glade?
Unescorted by any of her ladies in waiting,
much less several knights of the king's men,
befitting protection, for one of your station?
I shudder to think your husband, values
your life nor possession,
anymore than that.
Mayhap, one so otherwise, canny as him,
is unaware of his queen's solitary escapades
and dangerous transgressions?"

Lucinda blanched, which did not go unnoticed,
by Rathnar. They didn't call him the Raven,
for naught or nothing! So, he thought,
the old battle ax isn't aware,
of her solitary trespasses?
He raised a sardonic jet brow,
looking down, not at her eyes,
but the titian crowned hair of her head.
As she no longer looked up at him.
Her fiery, wrathful gaze had dropped,
at utterance of the Raven's last statement.

Softly, crooning as one would, to a highstrung,
high bred, horse of calvary, like Magnum;
he spoke again, in the shell of her ear.

"Don't tell me, Your Highness, feels like a bird,
in a glittering, gilded cage?"

Finding her voice, but none the less,
not bothering to tilt back her head,
to gain his eyes; she might have
seen the compassion there, otherwise;
Lucinda spake, in a low, graveled voice.
"Then Sir, I shan't. Tell you, that I am a bird,
in a gilded cage." She slipped from the
strong circle of his arms, quick as a phantasm,
before Rath was aware, of her intention;
and able to react, to stay her flight.

Like smoke from a windblown fire,
Lucinda drifted quickly into the dancing throng,
and disappeared; but a figment
of Rathnar's imagination.
As gone from his vision,
as she'd been, when she'd slipped
into the stand of silver leafed maples,
whence he'd commanded her,
to get thee, behind him!