A Cautionary Tale
By Dona Ana Ravaya de Guzman

 year ago, when snow was on the ground,
 And weather warm was nowhere to be found;
 When icy winds would have the face to freeze
 And have fierce melees with surrounding trees;
 When the Water-bearer's course was nearly run
 And gentles all did long to see the sun
 And feel the first awakenings of spring,
 When hearts would lift and souls would rise and sing,
 To Lions End in Ostgardr did we make,
 To Spanish climes, with hearts to give and take.

Throughout the night the am'rous lords made free
To dance and flirt and bow and make poetry.
The ladies did not think this was amiss;
They graciously accepted each hand-kiss.
Before the night's festivities were done,
A prize was to be given, only one,
To the lady and the lord who showed
The qualities of love fairly bestowed.

This poor poet for the ladies won,
But her trials had only just begun.
Among the lords not one man but two
Would have the prize, and she had to pick who!

The first was Ostgardr's Viceroy, Ian called,
Clan Mitchell's finest, stalwart, true, enthralled,
Inspired by his gracious lady wife,
So like El Cid, who loved his more than life.

The other was a strapping Spanish squire
Whose good name went before him like a fire,
Lighting hearts wherever he did go,
Was brave and chiv'lrous Squire Lazaro.


This poet had to make a careful choice.
Just then a young monk chose to raise his voice.
A novice, he, of the brothers Uriel,
Whose face and voice were fair and stood him well,
But she did choose the squire in the end,
For his speech was of her native land.

This did not please the monk, Dankwort by name,
And so he brashly sought to gain some fame
By challenging the squire in song and verse,
So sure was he to not come out the worse.
Of course Squire Lazaro could never yield;
He answered with a challenge on the field.
The young monk's bishop took the youth in hand
And told him, "Thou on perilous ground dost stand."
A vow of silence Dankwort had to take,
And eventually had apologies to make.

Imagine the chagrin of one and all,
When only one month later, when the call
For Royal Bardic Champions was made,
Queen Elspeth chose young Dankwort, and she bade
The young monk to be Queen's Bard for one year.
The young man thought he had naught else to fear,
And let the honored rank go to his head.
In various states of dishabille he said
And did some things we know he should not have.
No doubt his deeds may follow to his grave.
I need not repeat such doings here,
However tempted one may be to jeer.
He was but young and brash, thrown up too soon:
Not every elevation is a boon.

His term of Royal service now is done,
And all his indiscretions have come home.
For now he has the pale excuse of youth,
But should he have to next open his mouth,
I have but this advice to the young bard:
Remember what became of Abelard!

Written the XIIIth of February, A.S. XXXII. 

From the April 1998 Seahorse