Vouchsafe to those that have not read the
story,
That I may prompt them: and of such as
have,
I humbly pray them to admit the excuse
Of time, of numbers and due course of
things,
Which cannot in their huge and proper life
Be here presented.
-Prologue, Act V, William Shakespeare’s Henry V
The Traveler’s Prologue: Into the Breach
The Squire’s Prologue: The Man Who Would Be king
Recreation Or Re-Creation * Start Winning These Wars * A Real Man Does Whatever He Wants * Groaning From The Abundance of the Food * Making People Feel It
I Should Have Taken That * The
Squire’s Worth * Rock-em, Sock-em Robots
The Traveler’s Dilemma * The Thrifty Anachronist * Time Traveling Through T-Tunics * The Contessa’s Tale
Talon’s Transition * The
Imago of Darkyard * The Tale of Brannos’ Keep * Snoop Lupus Lupus * The Squire’s
Knot * The Tale of Pierre
Scene 5: Being a
Knight
It’s Like Being a Boy
Scout * Fighting Tests * The Broken Newbie’s Tale * Someone to Play With * The
Elvish Knight’s Tale * Make It Part of Me Personally
Scene 6: (Two) Arabian
Nights
It’s Something We All
Create * The Dancers All Want a Rhythm * The Dancing Daughter’s Tale * Listening
Until You Get It * The Tale of the Manly Men * Try to Dance to This * The Host’s
Tale * They Are In Need of Husbands
Scene 7:
University
Everything But the Squeal
of the Pig * There’s So Many Things * The Translator’s Tale * You Can Lose
Yourself in Time
Scene 8: The Squire’s
Tragedy
Scene 9: Gulf
Wars
Dashed Expectations * I
Do Want to Do One Period * I Didn’t Even Notice * The Tale of a Lion of
Ansteorra * A War With One Enemy * Let’s Get Ready to Melee * Colors That Bite *
Melee Madness * The Goddess of the Bow’s Tale * The Inventor’s Tale * That’s
Noble Combat * It’s Good to Be the Bard * Everybody Does Ballistae and Trebuchet
* The Gladiator’s Tale * A Killing Cup * Blacksmithing Is a Dance * A Notch in
the Machine
Scene 10: One Piece of
Metal Can Change Your Life
I Looked Like Garbage *
The Tale of the Ice Falcon * Start
Light
Scene 11: Controlled
Multiple Personality Disorder
Who Are you? * A Problem Name * They’re
Not Going to Believe You * The Tale of Chengir
Scene 12: The Squire’s
Wall
Act II
Scene 1: Learn By Doing
At First You Just Play *
It’s All Very Human * Keep the Play Version Separate * Not Modern Either * The
King’s Lesson * Find What’s Comfortable For You *
Scene 2: The Squire’s Choice
You Look at Yourself *
Everyone Around You Hitches Their
Wagons
Scene 3: The Dance Goob’s Tale
Riding the –ish * Guide,
Not Toss
Scene 4: Manning a
Shield
What Do You Need Me to
Do? * The Tale of the Shield Wall * Life as a “Speed Bump”
Scene 5:
Pennsic
The Teacher’s Tale * Have
Thee Not a Cow, Man * If You Can’t Score * The Tale of Satan * The Tale of the
Clan Tynker * A Good Old-Fashioned War * Dogs and Wenches, Lords and Ladies *
The Tale of the Armored Rose * Merchants’ Row * The Tale of Trim * Battle Plans
* The Squire’s Command * Out of the Woods * The Traveler’s Test * Darkyard! *
For Forgan * The Last Blow * War Pay * Preparing For
Crown
Scene 6: The Knight’s
Tale: The Die Is Cast
Never Voted Queen of
Anything * The Ultimate Cookie * The Die is Cast * This
Is It
Act
III
Scene 1: The Prince’s
Tale: Becoming a King
She Was So Deserving *
It’s Your Job * I Swear It To the People * The Crowns Get the Flotation Cushions
* Behold Your Queen
Scene 2: Wimples On:
Imagine That You Are Back In Time
Britannia: Crowds Love To
See the Wood Chips Fly * I Tell Them We Were In Gladiator * The Audience
Is Half the Battle * Regia Anglorum: It’s Just Ecstasy For Me * Nothing Harder
Than a Handclap * Shadows in the Landscape * Ermine Street Guard: They Lived
Here * I’ve Got To Go To Work Tomorrow
Scene 3: The
Illuminator’s Tale
It Just Illuminates the
Room * I Don’t Do Anything That Is Not Period
Scene 4: The King’s Tale:
The Day Is His
We Had Arrived * The
Traveler’s Change * He Took This War Very Personally * You Make Me Proud * Much
Easier to Blame the Other Guy * Not Turning His Back
The Traveler’s
Epilogue
O for a Muse of fire,
that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs
to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike
Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leash'd in
like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire,
Crouch for employment. But
pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirits that
hath dar'd
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object.
Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright
the air at
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a
million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary
forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confin'd
two mighty monarchies,
Whose high upreared and abutting fronts
The
perilous narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our
imperfections with your thoughts:
Into a thousand parts divide one
man,
And make imaginary puissance;
Think, when we talk of horses, that you
see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' th' receiving earth;
For 'tis your
thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping
o'er times,
Turning th' accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass;
for the which supply,
Admit me Chorus to this history;
Who prologue-like,
your humble patience pray
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our
play.
Prologue to the tale of
King Henry V, by William Shakespeare
No shit, there I
was...
Usual prologue to Current
Middle Ages tales
The Traveler’s Prologue: Into the Breach
“I’ve found that sometimes the things you
believe in become more real than all the things you can explain away or
understand.”
- Tommy Albright (Gene Kelly),
Brigadoon
My heart pounds beneath my chest armor as sweat slithers from under
the steel dome of my helm. Across the field they wait, 800 strong and menacing,
a killing machine ready to chop us down with swords, spears and
polearms.
If we don’t kill them
first.
The army of the enemy
“Darkyard!” the house commanders bellow.
“Darkyard!” scream the other fighters. I just clench my teeth in
determination.
I march forward with the
other shieldmen. Our speedy, kamikaze shock troops hit a wave of oncoming
Easterners with a churning of weapons. Bodies drop to the ground. The line of
Easterners crashes into us, some lowering their shoulders into our wall of
shields to bash through, others jabbing spear points into us. I deflect enemy blows
with my sword and my shield as our spearmen reach around me to stab the evil
Easterners in their faces and bellies.
I never really see the blow.
I see the Eastern warrior’s eyes lock on me and I freeze. I lose track of his polearm for a fatal instant and it comes at me in a blurry, looming rush to smash into my helm. I reel a moment, trying to regain my balance, but simply sink to my knees and keel over. My head hits the grass as boots stomp, bodies sink into the turf and blades swish and crack around me.
I am dead.
My journey to this battlefield in western
The Middle Ages clearly strike a chord with the masses, beyond
inspiring corporate identities like Burger King and Knights Inn. The ultimate
teller of fairy tales, Walt Disney, made castles the centerpieces of his
amusement parks. Movies like Henry V and Braveheart made millions.
And when I started my journey, the mother of the mix of Middle Ages and fantasy, The Lord of the Rings, neared
completion and box office success. Though I always knew that thousands of people
took things a step further by battling
orcs and ogres with dice rolls in games like Dungeons and Dragons,
I never realized there are many who go further still to re-create the age of
castles and swordplay. A growing crowd seeks more than just watching from a
theater seat, rolling dice for their paper characters or joining the paying
crowds of renaissance fairs.
They want to do it for themselves.
Five years before my journey began, some new
acquaintances went from talking to gushing as they told tales of some separate
world called Pennsic. Every year more than 10,000 medieval enthusiasts turn a
Slippery Rock,
You’re just as much a part of the show as everyone
else.
Start by leaving the T-shirt and cap at home. Everyone has to wear
medieval costume—“garb” in the jargon of this subculture—just to get in the
door. The rules ask everyone to become a medieval “persona,” a character based
on a historical period. Nobody collects a check for fighting in a show, for
telling bawdy wench jokes to a crowd or even for organizing and managing the
event itself. You and the 10,000 other attendees, instead of some movie director
or corporate organizer fretting over his bottom line, make Pennsic the medieval
celebration that it is.
Pennsic’s host, the confusingly-named but world’s-largest medieval
history group, the Society for Creative Anachronism, has been giving medieval
enthusiasts the chance to try out the Middle Ages for themselves since the
1960s. Pennsic is just its largest event. The SCA likely has a branch with
meetings, handicraft work sessions and smaller events in your town. You may have even seen the odd figures
in medieval clothes in the local park or coated with armor and wielding swords
on the nearby college campus. The 25,000 SCA members and the 50,000 hovering on
its fringes have created 18 Kingdoms (The 18th, known as Northshield
was scheduled to become a full kingdom as this book was going to press.) that
have their own Kings and Queens, officers and armies, Knights and Guilds, and
have divided up the entire United States, Canada and even Europe and Australia.
The local groups within these kingdoms can hold feasts, sword battles and
dancing in as many as 40 locations around the world any given
weekend.
The Society for Creative Anachronism falls in the middle of a spectrum of
other groups re-creating the same era in how it balances the difference between
re-creation and recreation. The SCA uses real history as its starting point,
though it takes some liberties in the name of fun and convenience. Other groups
drift further into fantasy or add their own twists under names like Dagorhir,
Amtgard, the
My first shell-shocked trip
to the Pennsic War as a curious but skeptical reporter had given me a sniff of
this subculture simmering under the noses of us “mundanes” — this group’s term
for modern clothing and people. Even after a few more short trips to Pennsic, I
was still torn over what to think of this alternate world. The little boy in me
that used to play Robin Hood with my toy bow and suction cup arrows couldn’t
wait to go back. My jaw had dropped at the 700-to-a-side battles, at the
pageantry, the colors and the immersion of thousands of adults into this
atmosphere. A part of my brain had the same reaction most of the participants in
the hobby have when they first find it: Cool! There are other people who love
this stuff! But the adult part was already scoffing and sneering, as many
people do at this unusual group. Get a life, losers! Adults don’t
dress up. They don’t play make-believe. This isn’t a real sport. It’s kid’s
stuff. The battle in my head mirrored that between the two main characters
in the play Brigadoon after they discover a town from the past
mysteriously appearing in the Scottish wilds. One wanted to go live there
forever while the other railed against it being out of touch with
reality.
“What am I supposed to feel in a voodoo joint like this?” the
character yelled at his friend amid the confusion of this magical Scottish
town.
“Dream stuff, boy! Only about
broomsticks and wishing wells! It’s either that or a boot camp for
lunatics.
I don’t know what goes on around here. All I know is that whatever
it is has got nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with you. And anything
that happens to either of us just doesn’t count. How can it when you don’t
understand it?
And you want to give your family, your friends, your whole life for this? It’s not even worth arguing about.”
Which side was right, I wondered? Was this all just a silly game? Or does
this hobby have some real value beyond play and escapism?
As 2001 hit, a few trivial coincidences sealed my fate. The Society for
Creative Anachronism turned 35 that year. The great Pennsic War turned 30. And
the start of 2001, as any SCAdian will tell you, was the true start of the new
millennium. I decided to mark the occasion by journeying in both space and in
time to see how this group of 21st century Americans tries to re-create and
learn about the beginning and middle of the last millennium. I would learn this
by doing it. I would attend the events, I would wear the garb, I would take the classes, sleep in the tents, build the armor
and learn to swing the sword for combat.
The answer to all the how’s and why’s, I learned over the next two years,
lies somewhere in the middle, just as the “Known World” of the SCA sits in a
unique place straddling both theater and reality, while also bouncing between
the modern world and the medieval one.
Umberto Eco, best known as the author of The Name of the Rose,
points out in his essay The Return to the Middle Ages that stories of the
Middle Ages can either make the medieval world their
real subject or just use the period as its colorful setting. Authors can use
their plot and the endeavors and struggles of the characters they create to
teach lessons about the history of the period, or they can use the Middle Ages as simply a fantastic and attention-drawing
backdrop for characters to play out very modern issues and plotlines. (Eco’s
The Name of the Rose largely fits his first definition while the movie
treats the Middle Ages as little more than a setting
for a Sean Connery mystery.) Even Shakespeare took liberties with history,
molding the events in his historical plays to fit themes that made for a more
dramatic tale that audiences of his time, and of the hundreds of years since,
could identify with.
Though the Society for Creative Anachronism uses the Middle Ages as the set for its ongoing serial drama, it has
never made a definitive casting choice for the era. Instead, it lets its
thousands of members decide on their own what role the medieval world will play
in their own storylines.
Though the Society tells the Internal Revenue Service it is an
educational group, it also strives to serve “The Dream”—an amorphous concept of
valor, virtue and glory, of which every member has a different definition.
Everyone gets to be the star. Everyone gets to pick and choose, to highlight and
downplay, the aspects of history that are important to them. Some use the
“Current Middle Ages” to provide a physical context for the things they study in
books, to help take things from the page and put them in concrete form. Others
come for the themed costume party, to latch onto their fantasy fetish of the
moment or to live “In Service to The Dream.” It has room for readers (like you?)
who actually read the entire masterfully-crafted Henry V prologue a few
pages back to consider the analogies between a re-creation group and actors in
bringing a version of history to life. And it can also welcome readers (like
you?) who skipped right over all that burdensome blathering and went straight to
the amusing bit below.
For the people that take this world seriously, their personal journeys
carry an emotional weight in their real-world lives. The character in
Brigadoon may have believed that “anything that happens to either
of us just doesn’t count,” but deeds in this Society do “count” to its members.
It may be as simple as finding a
community where they are welcome, amid a “mundane” world where the best
connection to others often comes through the Internet or television. It may come
from having a venue to test themselves academically or as artists, fighters or
leaders. The destination for still others is to sort out personal issues in a
setting that lets them slide back and forth from the real world to a pretend
one. This world lets ordinary people play heroes and gives those with flaws a
stage to grow into one. In treating itself as a separate world, apart from
everyday struggles and failures, it borrows yet again from Shakespeare’s
Henry V.
“There is none of you so mean and base,” King Henry tells his ready
troops,
“that hath not noble luster in your eyes.”
With so many scattered views of what this world should be like, no one
person — or even 10 people — can fully reflect this “society.” Instead, I offer
my own experience as a newcomer to this subculture to provide a glimpse for
those who are on the outside. Those of you who are unwilling to put on tights or
armor can just sit back and let me have that experience for you. I also offer
the stories of a few people who help me along this journey and of many I meet
along the way. In many cases, their
efforts go well beyond anything I could experience in person and I let their “Tales”
cover topics I can only hope to learn more about. To borrow from Eco, this
account is more about the “Current Middle Ages” than it is about me, about the
squire Valharic (who you will soon meet) or any of the other characters. Each of
the portraits in this mosaic of stories is meant to illuminate a different
aspect of this diverse Society.
When the new millennium hit, I picked up my notebook and pen, put on the
costumes I had pulled together for my brief, curious trips to Pennsic and
ventured into this “voodoo joint” and “boot camp for lunatics.” To brace myself,
I drew upon Shakespeare yet again and took to heart a command Henry V gave his
troops.
Once more into the breach, I told myself. Once more
into the breach.
The Squire’s Prologue: The Man Who Would Be King
If it be a sin to covet
honor,
I am the most offending soul
alive.
- Act IV, Scene iii, Henry
V
“I’m going to be king,” little Tommy Noble kept telling people. His parents. His friends. Even his
friend’s mother heard the boasts.
Some kids want to be astronauts when they grow up. Some want to be
President or a fireman or even the guy who drives the ice cream truck. But the
sword is what always fired Tommy Noble’s imagination. Though the medieval weapon
is obsolete today, it can still fuel dreams of dramatic and romantic adventure,
of grand deeds and rescues. Of being a
hero.
As a tot living in
When he moved on to middle
school back in the
But the friends he had chosen and the world he had decided to live in
made that goal merely a bit boastful, not grounds for strapping him into a
straitjacket. A few neighbor kids had invited him to a meeting of a group called
Dagorhir (pronounced Dagger-Here), which gave him the chance to put his
sword-wielding fantasies in a more tangible setting. Dagorhir plays at the fantasy of Middle Ages battles, by really playing at it. Its
mostly-teenage warriors pick fantasy names, wear costumes and fight the battles
themselves using foam-padded swords, spears and battleaxes. Dagorhir fights are
not acting—though dramatic embellishments like battle screams and dying with a
flourish are encouraged. They are real competition. Each side—whether it be an
individual or an army—tries to beat the other by striking “killing” blows. If
you are more skilled with your weapon in Dagorhir, you win. The big drawback is
that the foam padding on the stick weapons swells them into giant puffy
popsicles, about as close to real swords as a jumbo wiffle ball bat is to a
baseball bat.
Until he hit 14, Noble was too young to fight under the group’s rules.
But he had found a home. “The Kid,” as he was known, both affectionately and
sometimes derisively by the wizened old high schoolers in the group, scooted
around in borrowed costumes and was often drafted by fighters as a pack mule for
their piles of armor. He signed up to fight as soon as he was old enough,
despite parents who thought this whole hitting people with sticks deal was a
little weird.
It wasn’t weird for him, though. For Noble and his newfound Dagorhir
friends, the normal puberty-powered pursuits of high school status seemed empty.
Cooler medieval “garb” meant more than wearing the “in” clothes or the “right”
makeup. Gaining positions of honor in the group meant more than being part of
the right clique in school. It was better to be “king” of a band of fighters you
could lead into battle, than to be homecoming king or queen, just to smile and
wave to cameras. Outsiders could deride them as geeks or losers and laugh that
they probably never went out on dates. But geek girls were there to go out with
the geek boys. Many in this crowd were uncoordinated, gawky or overweight
klutzes more comfortable at their computer than in a weight room. But many more
skipped normal high school athletics just because they felt they could be more
mythic heroes by the sword and in their coats of arms than in their school
colors.
“It just seemed right,” Noble said.
Soon he started hitting people in the battles more often than they hit
him. His belief that he was destined to be a warrior and leader had found a
stage.
He was still too young to
drive when a friend’s mother started taking him to Society for Creative
Anachronism meetings, where the fighting and its setting cranked up a level.
Dagorhir pads the weapons. The Society pads the people. SCA fighting looks much
more real with its metal armor and helmets, despite the duct-taped sticks
passing as swords. The Society also provides a much bigger stage than Dagorhir.
With more than 20,000 members — plus an estimated 50,000 unofficial
participants—in more than a dozen “Kingdoms” nationwide and in Europe, it has
the critical mass to be worthy of its “Society” name. As soon as he was old
enough at 18, he shifted to fighting in the SCA style. The stocky and terribly
young-looking warrior, a fireplug with dimples, started to build a name for
himself in his new home.
He assumed a Roman “persona” as a fighter and mixed fantasy with history
by adopting the name Valharic from Michael Moorcock’s Elric fantasy novel
series. He also became a squire to a modern-day “Knight” within this Society,
who went by the name Forgan Aurelius. Noble joined the Roman-style fighting
household that Forgan had formed and completed his new warrior persona by taking
on Forgan’s last name. The childhood goal of the newly renamed Valharic Aurelius
had gained focus.
“I’m going to be King of the Middle Kingdom,” he now
said.
Often known as the Midrealm,
the Middle Kingdom is one of the largest and most powerful kingdoms of the
Society for Creative Anachronism’s “Known World.” It stretches from
His dream now had a kingdom for a stage.
Meanwhile, his life took several twists as he grew and gained all the
adult stresses that come without a birthright to a real-world throne. He tried
to hone his art talent at the Pittsburgh Institute of Art until a starving
artist’s bankroll forced him to quit.
He learned to cook and prepare sushi, but could not find a job thanks to
an odd form of racism: “White men can’t slice,” he grumbled after being turned
down yet again. He put in a stint in the Michigan National Guard working on
military strategy and amplifying his belief he was born to be a military leader.
And while he never lost his dimples, he picked up a few rough edges that made
him closer to the young Prince Hal than an innocent cherub. Like the young Henry
in Shakespeare’s tale,
“...his addiction was to courses vain,
His companies unletter'd, rude, and shallow,
His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets,
sports;
Though the entire Middle Ages pursuit might fit that description on its
own, the rest of his life fit it even more. “The Kid” worked security for a few
rock concerts and helped manage strip clubs; his admiration of Capitan Harlock
soon had a mate in the form of 1950’s pinup Betty Page; and in between the names
Valharic and Aurelius he added the middle name of “Caligula,” after
She gave his dream of becoming king another driving force. He could make
her his queen.
Nine months before I started my own journey
across the modern medieval world, the couple made the drive to
It would be hard. A few dozen of the 1,000 other fighters in the Kingdom
had the same goal and passion. Some of his opponents could fight so well and
were so well versed in Middle Ages customs that they
were no longer just fighters. They were “Knights”—full-fledged, inner-circle,
dubbed-by-sword Knights of this Society—not Knight wanna-bes like Valharic. He
had a long way to go to prove himself worthy of that
title. Some of the fighters had even won a Crown Tournament before and had taken
a turn on the throne Noble cherished.
Among them was a 6’ 7” giant who went by the name Edmund of Hertford.
Edmund had won the crown before. Not once. But twice.
And he towered over opponents with arms so long they could rain down stinging
blows from improbable angles. Edmund loomed ahead in the tournament bracket,
just as he loomed over the string of opponents he clubbed “dead” in round after
round as the tournament progressed. Valharic kept his focus on his own matches
and his sword tore through his half of the bracket. Fighting for himself and the
glory of his soon-to-be wife, he felled foes with his bread-and-butter leaps and
backhand chops to their helmets. He was good but few people expected him to be
this deadly. “It was as if,” said one of his friends who watched amazed, “he had
been touched by the gods that day.”
In the semifinals, he dispatched one of the lofty Knights. He was one
bout away from making 15 years of boasts come true.
All that stood in the way was Edmund.
Either Edmund or Valharic would spend six months serving as Prince before
graduating from that understudy post to become King. The winner would have the
honor and duty of traveling hours away nearly every weekend to rule the Kingdom.
The winner would wear the crown and lead the Kingdom army into battle. He would
be King and the loser would have to bow to him.
As they prepared to fight, the King of the moment, known in this Society
as the Viking Dag Thorgrimsson, reminded the crowd that gathered in close
- all wearing tunics, doublets and gowns to
watch the heroics - that the fight they were about to see was
more than just a battle between two men. Just like a sword, it would stand for
so much more.
“My Lords and Ladies,” he told his populace, “this is the first test of a
true King. Courage, honor, veracity will be shown here. Watch these gentlemen,
for one of them will be your King someday. Know their
worth.”
Valharic and Edmund moved to the center of the fighting ring. As is
Kingdom custom, all of the its Knights knelt in a
circle around the ring to watch carefully. The combatants shifted their weight
from foot to foot, sizing each other up from just out of sword range, before
launching into each other with a blur of sword swipes, quick blade snaps and
lightning parries. They split the first two duels, with Edmund swatting a clout
to the side of Valharic’s head and Valharic somehow, with a stretch of his arms,
reaching almost over the top of Edmund’s helmet to give it a smash.
As he readied for the third and deciding bout, Valharic bounced with
anticipation, almost shadow boxing. His goal was within
reach.
The fighters closed on each other. They swung and chopped, deflecting the
hacks with their blades and shields. They managed only glancing blows until
Valharic, with a quick slash, slipped a sword swipe below Edmund’s shield and
caught his leg. Edmund dropped to his knees wounded. With that one slash, the
giant was cut down to size.
If Valharic could land one
more blow, the lowly squire would take down the vaunted Knight. Little Tommy
Noble would take the crown from a royal the Society held on high. David would
beat Goliath.
Valharic backed up. He regrouped.
And charged.
Swords flashed. Shields shifted to block blows. The two collided. Each
landed blows on the other as they toppled to the floor. The crowd held its
breath. That jumbled and confused exchange held the futures of both combatants
and the entire Kingdom for the next year.
Valharic and Edmund pulled themselves from their twisted heap in seconds.
But that split-second crossing of swords had tied a knot of competitive drive,
desire, honor, chivalry and fair play that would take almost two years to
untangle.