The Esquire Observes The Church

Dark as any cavern, the cold of night
Shriveled nose hairs. Our horses snorted steam,
Sir Simon, with whom I rode and to whom
My fealty as squire is sworn, shivered,
Coughed and spat. “This is no land for us,”
He muttered, wiping gauntlet to nose. “This season
At home would be warm and sunny. See you yon hare?
He limps. I vow from the cold. The beastly cold.”
He coughed again. “Have you seen aught of buildings
Resembling churches, whether whole or ruined?”

A thousand paces beyond a ruined church
Would be a tavern, or so our orders said
We had ridden northward from our duchy. 
A fair and temperate land, far to the south
And far below this frozen mountain road.
Our Duke had charged us on our lives to find
An agent of the local duke, his cousin,
And deliver the small package that Sir Simon
Wore next his body, waiting for that time.

“I have not, Sir Simon, “I replied
but at that very instant, the wan moon
broke through the clouds, sending a beam
upon a ruined nave, having no roof..
The specter of a stained glass window glittered.
An owl huddled atop the ruins, feathers fluffed 
Against the cold. It stared at us then stooped 
Upon the hare who left his limp and scampered
into his warren, beneath the church-like shell.

The Landlord’s Appointment with Destiny

Tonight, they are raucous,
These minions of the upstart duke,
Pretender to the fiefdom.
I serve their thirst most servilely
In service to my duke.
Never bother a dog as it worries a bone. 

My serving wenches are aflutter,
At once liking and shunning the attention
Of drunken varlets, loud with ale. 
On a night such as this,
Who would sleep alone?

The door swings inward,
Admitting wind and snow,
Admitting the beastly cold that grips our duchy.
Admitting, also, a knight and his esquire,
Grizzled warrior attended by a comely, beardless lad.
The lad bore two bulging saddle bags.

The room falls silent. 
The varlets look, exchange speculative glances,
Plot who knows what villany.
These varlets are not followers of our duke
The rightful heir to our land,
But plot his overthrow.

The esquire slams shut the door,
Stamps snow from his boots.
The knight speaks, words of authority.
“Landlord, attend our horses and bring us
food and drink. So foul a night!
Have you no spring in this duchy?”

“Spring enough and to spare, but in it’s season,”
I respond. “Think you to stay the night? I have warm rooms
Each with its own fire.”

“And most welcome they would be,” the knight replied.
“Please direct my esquire to such a room for us.” 
To the lad, he said, ‘”Bear you our saddle bags
To that room, secure it, and return apace
To drink, dine, and warm your bones.”

To the serving wench, he said, “Come, Good Wife, 
Fetch us to sup and to drink.
Lay all on that table next the fire
For we are cold, hungry and thirsty beyond endurance.”
He looked about, noting all in the room.
“And drinks for all present, added to my bill,
for tonight is foul enough for all
and all need ease.”

Then he moved his hand from the pommel
Of his great sword, revealing
A device graved there that made my heart leap
For it was the signal that this knight
Though cold, hungry and thirsty beyond endurance
Was indeed the one I sought
Or rather, who sought me.
Bearing what I sought.

The Peasant's Quandry

I know the seasons of this land,
How and when to plant
How and when to harvest,
For I have worked this land
Alongside my father, as would any son,
As he alongside his, and far back
Beyond the memory of the oldest among us.

I know the winter now cramping the land
Will thaw, and let me plant again.
It has always been so.
I know the insurrection that grips the land,
Much as does the winter,
Will one day be resolved
It has always been so. 

My good wife, God rest her,
Ere she left us, gave me five sons
Most welcome in the flelds
And three daughters, welcome enough
Though three sons more would have been more so.

Of the daughters, two are gone 
To live with my cousin, he who dwells
In those low lands by the sea
Where winters such as this one vex him not,
Nor insurrection such as this one.

Why gone? The upstart duke
Needs wenches for his followers, and at times
For himself, though married and well so.
My youngest girl found work at the tavern
As a serving wench. The landlord there
Is a good, Christian man. 
He guards her as his own.

Of the sons, two also are gone.
I sent one to be a man at arms
For our duke, heir to this duchy, who rewards
His subjects for such things.
The other, I sent to the upstart who seeks dukedom.
He is hardly a good man, but is powerful
With many violent followers
And haply may be the victor in the end.
Having one son in each camp seemed prudent. 

Tell you me this, good friend; 
When the two sons come to visit,
To which shall I commit
Those fled from the upstart’s minions? 
A knight and esquire are hiding in my barn.