Deeds of Stealth and Cunning: The Story of the Raglan Doole AS 51, as told by Lord Yannick of Normandy (who was there and did suffer)

'Doooole!' they cried! 'Doooole!' For shires did muster their finest archers to compete on the Raglan Doole.

The year was AS. 51, at Raglan Ffaire. This is the story of the Evil Baroness, Her Dread Excellency Ari Mala and her insatiable desire to win the Doole, and of poor Yannick; who did suffer greatly.

It began just days into the Ffaire when Master Archer Lord Mícheál of Dun in Mara mysteriously, accidentally, brutally chopped off his bow hand with an axe while making breakfast. No-one suspected foul play.

Barely one day later, Master Archer Lord Yannick of Normandy narrowly survived a Cards and Gin related assassination attempt by the Evil Baroness. Her plan to prevent him shooting for his home shire of Pont Alarch was thwarted by the Ladies of the shire, who administered coffee in great quantities. His life saved, the Ladies of the shire did nonetheless gather and glare at him in silence for being so foolish as to fall for such a simple ploy; and lo... Yannick did suffer.

Now shunned by Pont Alarch for his foolish behaviour, Yannick was cast aside. Lord Mícheál with his single remaining hand was pressed into service by Lady Alana, who was seemingly immune to his miserable pleading for mercy.

Her Dread Excellency decided it was time for Plan B!, “if you can't kill 'em, join 'em up!”.

The day of the Doole, the Evil Baroness cast a spell on an unsuspecting Lord Marx, her own team mate! Lord Marx mysteriously vanished in a cloud of green smoke, mere moments before the Doole began. Leaving behind nought but strange globules of green goo on the end of his arrows. The hapless Yannick wandered too close and was forced to shoot for the Evil Baroness under enchantment; the Ladies of Pont Alarch did glare, and so... Yannick did suffer.

Deeds of Stealth and Cunning: ‘A Rehearsall Both Straung and True' by Arianhwy, barwnes arslwyd

Being a tale of the second year of the Raglan Dooooooooooole, and told at the request of Viscount Yannick

And so, it came to pass, in the year of the reign of Yannick and Alana, that the cry of “Dooooole!” was once again heard in the land, and many doughty archers assembled upon the grounds of Raglan Castle to contest the prize and entertain those who chose to watch. There was much buzz: would the team of female master archers win this year? Would the other teams of master archers win? Or could the West Dragonshire team (this year called WD-40, for the shire and the age none of the team would see again), entirely comprised of non-master archers, defend its well-won title?

In the first year of the Doole, due to circumstances entirely beyond her control, Baroness Arianhwy (no, the other one) found herself in the excellent company of Edmund fitzJohn and Yannick of Normandy, as the three of them won the competition. Some of you are no doubt familiar with the scandalous and downright inaccurate tales of the machinations Arianhwy (the other one, I said) went to to ensure victory. If you haven’t heard the tale itself, you will no doubt have heard its refrain: And Yannick did suffer.

Upon the morning of the second doooole, Arianhwy found her fingers had exploded in blood and pus. Clearly, this was the work of some evil character trying to prevent her from defending her title! Yannick’s defection to sitting in the sun drinking gin and watching whilst wearing a pointy hat had already meant a change in the team: Dame Geneviève la flechière had gallantly stepped in to fill his place.

Courageous Challenges and Desperate Duels: ‘Challenging Dukes for Fun and Profit' by Baroness Arianhwy Wen

So it came to pass that Paul de Gorey was inspired to win Crown for Aryanhwy merch Catmael. At the court that afternoon, it should be noted, Lady Ceara and Lord Cedric of the Floppy Hat’s eldest daughter was elevated to the nobility, in particular for cooking and assistance in the kitchen. There was great rejoicing, and an even greater feast.

Duke Gerhardt wished to speak to the new lady. He called for her during feast, to be told that she was in the kitchen. Duke Gerhardt, who had been libating the present and future crown of Drachenwald, said “In the kitchen? As she should be!”

The assembled populace gasped. I was seated between Lord Duncan Forbes and (then) Viscount William of Richwood. I said, “That comment was grounds for a duel!” and looked at Lord Duncan, who nodded and said “It certainly is,” but stayed seated (the feast was really very good). I looked at the good (then) viscount, and he was nodding, as well; but he, too, remained seated.

So I stood up, and with a cry of “My good lord Duke!” I accosted Duke Gerhardt who, as I have observed, was half-cut. What ensued was him expostulating, and me tearing a strip off this duke I had never met with angry wit. Eventually he accepted the challenge to duel, and said we would meet at Raglan. During ensuing correspondence it was arranged that we would shoot archery, in armour, from the window embrasure, to determine the outcome.

Sadly for him, the Duke was not able to take leave of his modern responsibilities. Queen Aryanhwy judged that therefore he lost the duel, and the honour of Lady Aschenputtel, as she was then known, was preserved.

It is hard to remember, but I think this was before I was actively evil. Note the adverb. How I became so is another story.

Courageous Challenges and Desperate Duels: A Tale of Trouble over Taxes from Lord Maredudd ap Gwylim

Many years ago, when our lands had no Coronet, and we were still making enquiries amongst ourselves as to whether indeed that should be our destiny, yet were we still an administrative region of the great Kingdom of Drachenwald, with regional officers who collected the reports of the Shires and sent them on for the attention of the Their Majesties' Officers of State. In those days, it happened that The Shire of Mynydd Gwyn had within its populace a Shire Exchequer, a regional Exchequer, and the Kingdom Exchequer; and so was set in place the planning for some "business"... 

At a great feast, such as are common within these lands, Their Majesties called into Their Presence the Kingdom Exchequer: "We have been examining the taxation records for the Kingdom, and it appears that We have not received all that is Our due!" The Kingdom Exchequer insisted that all taxes received had been forwarded directly to Their Majesties, and asked if Their Majesties could show where this discrepancy had occurred? "The Isles" (which was the common name for our lands at that time), came the reply. "Call the Isles Exchequer" echoed through the halls, and the regional Exchequer was found and presented. Once again a hapless officer was questioned, and once again they insisted that all taxes had been forwarded. 

Examining the records in more detail showed that the (alleged) shortfall came from the taxes owed by the Shire of Mynydd Gwyn. "Call the Mynydd Gwyn Exchequer!" Your humble narrator was produced as the (possibly) guilty party, but insisted that there had been no error in his figures, and that all was as it should be. Their Dread Majesties insisted "But there have been no taxes paid by the Isle of Anglesey within the borders of your Shire!" After some discussion, an explanation was forthcoming: One of Their Majesties' recent ancestors had been the puissant Sir Elffin O'Mona, Duke Drachenwald, and because Mona and Anglesey are, in different tongues, the same lands those lands had been deeded back to him to simplify the record keeping (rather than His then Majesty paying taxes on his personal holdings that would then be returned to Him as King). Formal presentation of the deeding had been made, but no record of any revoking appeared to exist from after the Noble Duke had relinquished His Throne. 

Relieved to have successfully thrown the blame onto someone else, your narrator started blustering about the terrible insult to the Shire of Mynydd Gwyn, and calling for satisfaction of this insult to be made. "Call the Shire Champion!" was the somewhat unwise cry from the Shire Exchequer; unwise, because it was then gently pointed out that, authorised but a month before, The Exchequer (your narrator) was the only authorised armoured combatant living within the bounds of the Shire and therefore by default, the Shire Champion. With much hesitation, the somewhat tentative words "For the insult to the Shire of Mynydd Gwyn, I, Lord Maredudd ap Gwylim challenge (gulp) His Grace Sir Elffin O'Mona, Duke Drachenwald to single combat" were forced out... Fortunately His Grace had been called away on other business; unfortunately, one of His Grace's doughty squires was present and offered immediate satisfaction; fortunately your narrator had neglected to bring his armour! 

There then followed a comedy of errors whereby for the next three full Reigns of the Crowns of Drachenwald one or other of His Grace and I would either not be present or not be armoured. Eventually the challenge was fought with the predictable result, but, by dint of catching His Grace at the end of a long day of fighting, your narrator did better than might have been expected: I lasted for several seconds, and I believe that one of my blows might have been good (if only it had been harder or on target).

Animals: ‘The Cat Who Entered Coronet’ by Lady Alessandra di Riario

In the current year of our beloved Society, those gathered in the month of February by the field of the Clough of Linnet to see the great tournament were witness to a strange sight. Not the rain which had fallen for forty days and nights, or the wind that constantly howled and moaned or so it seemed to the Company there gathered, to the ladies who huddled in their warmest garb, to the Chivalry who despatched their squires for their heaviest cloak, or to the Marshal who declared that the tournament to provide heirs to the Principality should be held between the kitchen and the hall, where the ground would bear the weight of an armed warrior. The number of the combatants in this great tournament was at that time less than even, so that for great love of Courtesy and that the fighters might have benefit of his skill and desire to promote learning, His Majesty Aerikr also took the field as a Bye fighter.

And so it was that after a break, for the fighting had been hard with many great blows inflicted upon helm and hauberk, and many great warriors chivalrously defeated by their opponents, though they gave great resistance, that his Majesty took the field. Before he could strike a blow, the Chivalry cried “hold!” of one voice, for a new combatant walked upon the field, even though he had sought no approval and sent no letter and the Seneschal knew not his name.

This brave and proud warrior was long and lean of limb, pointed of face and large of ear.  His hair was of a curious sandy hue, with streaks of brown and black, his breast and feet as white as the swan and behind he bore a great ringed plume which he carried proudly. For this was Oscar, c(h)atelaine of that place, born to his fief 18 summers ago, he bore a man’s whiskers on his chin, and, so the gatekeeper attested, he was wont to patrol his lands each day, lest any invade and lay siege to them. And as Oscar crossed to the field he went not first to the Lady Alessandra who bore on her shield the cat paly, nor to the lady Eowen who bore on hers his own image. This proud lord, scion of the Great Cat of Ra, went first unto Sir Avery of Westfall who cried to the company “Here is our friend come to see us, let us welcome him”. At that the Lady Alessandra gave much assent crying, “yes, let us welcome him, for he is old for one of his race and at 18 summers this may be his last time on the field.” Then did Sir Elfin, Duke Drachenwald, agree saying most wisely “if he is of 18 summers then he asserts correctly his right to be on the field, for he is come of age even though he be not auth’d.”

Then did the company welcome on to the field Oscar, and grant unto him by this assent auth for the day and Oscar made fit to assail the King. He took his stance, keeping his distance and raised his arm which bore no less than five sharp blades - and then he yielded, blinking with his eyes, as his race is wont to do. Thus Oscar showed wisdom in his valor and a lesson to those who would always seek glory without first considering their odds. This Oscar paid unto Aerikr great homage and acknowledged him as his liege lord, and Aerikr accepted his homage. He allowed him to leave with honor and to cross the field to the company of the ladies who welcomed him with great joy and much rubbing of ears and scratching of belly and this Oscar showed by his courtesy and gentleness that he was well accustomed to such.

And on that day was victory granted by the strength of his arm and the extent of his chivalry and courtesy to Sir Avery of Westfall and his wise and beautiful lady Zoë, that they might rule our great principality. As for Oscar, he walks his domains still, for he is of age to be on the field, and still he looks at Kings, and is loved by ladies, for I have heard no different.

Welcome to The Dracameron!

This is a project to collect stories from the Society for Creative Anachronism's  Kingdom of Drachenwald (although they need not have taken place here), so that we can share those stories now while we cannot meet to share them in person, and hopefully, to serve as a permanent repository for our Principality, to say that we were here, and this is what we did, and here are those tales. The project began in Drachenwald's Principality of Insulae Draconis but has since been expanded to the whole Kingdom.

Tales of war, of arts, of joy, of sorrow, of love, of friendship and family, of great deeds and amusing occurrences. Tales of travel, tales of feasts, tales of exceptional events. Tales of people - and animals. Tales of kindness, and courtesy, and courage, and daring escapes (or not). Of the great deeds of our fighters. The tales of our foundation. Of triumphs in the Arts and Sciences. Perhaps of those now in different kingdoms and missed. All of these and more may be found here. 

Tales such as, perhaps, those of the fool who forgot their opponent was left-handed in the final of the Oxford Roll. Or the courageous victor, from his knees. Or the fighter who finally got his round shield back after the baggage handlers realised the plane had unaccountably developed an extra hatch. Or the Knight whose weapons got put in Lost Property. Or even, maybe, of the cat who stopped Coronet, but was permitted to cross the field by Duke Drachenwald because he was 18, and thus eligible to be there.

The Dracameron is the idea of the Lady Alessandra di Riario d'Aretino and is run by that good lady and Lady Cecily of Okynfirth, both of Insulae Draconis.