Copyright Scott Farrell, 2005

I need to begin this chapter with an explanation. During our reign (as King and Queen of Caid), several strange, bizarre, amusing incidents occurred in rather spontaneously — in fact, you might say the entire reign was made up of such incidents. While these incidents had very little to do with the formalities of being on the throne, they were, as we say in the world of journalism, “too good to pass up.” Thus, after the end of the reign, I asked someone called “The Inquisitor” — a shadowy, retiring entity with a nearly omniscient awareness who, nevertheless, chooses to reside in the coat closet in our guest bedroom — to set down his recollections of these incidents in writing, just as the great medieval chroniclers such as Matthew Paris or Geoffrey de Villehardouin would surely have done had they run out of real news to cover.

So, with that in mind, here’s the first of a three-part series called “Chronicles of the Inquisitor,” that details events that took place (thankfully) outside the public eye during our reign.

The first incident that I must relate to you occurred at a meeting of the revered Order of the Laurel, which Guillaume, being king, was allowed to attend. The order’s appreciation of his presence was expressed by the first item of business that Mistress Angelina, secretary of the order, had put on the agenda: “Debate regarding whether or not to duct tape king’s mouth shut.”

Fortunately, royal participation in the meeting turned out to be a very minor issue. Guillaume, with his considerable attention span, was captivated by the intellectual discussion of the arts and sciences for almost 13 full seconds. After that, he began to search for something to amuse himself with which involved either breaking furniture or setting something on fire.

Glancing around the room, Guillaume saw that a party held in the home of the meeting host had resulted in several unused piñatas being strewn around the room. One of these piñatas was shaped like the animated dog “Blue” from the cartoon Blue’s Clues. As the Laurels’ discussion of the arts and sciences continued, Guillaume felt that he could add to the order’s body of knowledge by quietly demonstrating that Blue was hollow and that the king’s entire hand could fit inside Blue’s head.

At nearly the same time, Guillaume also spotted another “leftover” item from the previous night’s party: a six-pack of Silly String aerosol spray cans. It was not long, therefore, before Guillaume in his finite royal wisdom put these two pieces of data together by placing an entire can of Silly String inside Blue’s head.

At this point, the meeting reached a lull and the members of the order turned to the king to ask whether it would be the royal pleasure to continue with the next item of business, or to take a short refreshment break. Guillaume looked at them all momentarily with an expression of great compassion, then held up the piñata and said, “I think we should take a break, ’cuz Blue’s allergies are bothering him. Tell us how you feel Blue.”

Then he made an appalling “Ah-choo!” sound and sprayed green Silly String out of the piñata’s nose, striking members of the Order of the Laurel who were sitting as far as 20 feet away.

This joke was met with the uproarious sound of horrified silence, so Guillaume repeated it several times just in case anyone had not fully appreciated the subtle humor of their king causing slimy green string to shoot out of the nose of a papier-mâché dog.

The Laurels’ appreciation of this prank was so great that in less than a minute Mistress Angelina was considering whether a simple majority vote would be sufficient to add “beat king to death” to the agenda. Fortunately Mistress Maria Theresa devised a more expedient way of calling for a recess by acquiring her own can of Silly String and conducting an experiment (remember: it’s arts and sciences) to determine whether string sprayed into the king’s right ear would, in fact, shoot out through his left ear.

Just for the record: It did not.

(Enjoy more irreverent, insightful and appalling details of Guillaume’s experiences on the throne in his new book.)

Read more in “Here Comes the Reign, Sir Guillaume!”

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Copyright Scott Farrell, 2005

Phase I: Stupidity

Riding along through the snow with the wind in my face, 20 miles away from the nearest automobile or telephone, I began to imagine I was a medieval knight out on a sleigh ride, bundled up in a heavy cloak, gliding through an icy forest, knowing that a blazing hearth was waiting for me on my return to the castle …

Unfortunately, there were a few problems with my little winter fantasy, as I steered my snowmobile down a frozen hillside in Idaho last December.

First, a medieval knight would not have been out in weather approaching 40 below zero because he would not have had a GoreTex parka and battery-powered, heated gloves to keep him from freezing to death. He would have been at home, in front of his blazing hearth, whipping his servants for neglecting to put enough cloves into his hot mulled wine.

Second, a medieval knight would have been riding on a sedate, horse-drawn sleigh, not a neon green, high-performance snowmobile powered by a 1,000 cc racing engine capable of 0 to 60 mph acceleration in under 4 seconds.

Third, and perhaps most important, while daydreaming about a medieval sleigh ride, I had neglected to notice that the inside of the Lexan visor on my helmet had frozen into a solid sheet of ice, thus preventing me from seeing that I was headed directly toward a 40-foot fallen log which had cleverly camouflaged itself with a coating of approximately .03″ of snow.

A moment later the tinny buzz of my snowmobile’s engine was replaced by the sound of crunching plastic and aluminum, followed almost instantly by the sound of wind rushing past my head as I flew through the air and the staccato rhythm of snowmobile parts hitting the ground all around me.

When I finally plopped down into a snow bank, my first thought was, “Well, that wasn’t as bad as standing up to a Drafn shield charge. Heck, I didn’t even get a scratch.” Then I stood up and brushed away the snow … and I noticed my left hand was sort of twisted around at a 45-degree angle and pointing off to the side like I was trying to hail a taxi in a Salvador Dali painting.

Fortunately, just at this time Felinah, who was riding her own snowmobile, drove up and — drawing upon years of medical training and diagnostic experience — said, “Um, you don’t look so good.”

Phase II: Immobility

Six hours later, I was in the surgical recovery ward of Rexburg County Hospital. There were two pins in my arm holding together the various hunks of bone that formerly were my wrist, and my left arm was encased in fiberglass and nylon.

Lying there, half-dazed on medication which I’m sure was originally developed for livestock use, I began to wonder what would have happened to a real medieval knight with a similar injury after taking a bad fall from his horse during a battle or tourney. Contrary to popular opinion, not all doctors in the Middle Ages were ignorant butchers. A wealthy duke or baron would likely have enlisted the services of a physician who’d studied anatomy in Italy and seen surgical procedures performed by doctors trained in Greece or Persia. For a loud-mouthed Belgian knight who had insulted the king once too often, however, medical care would probably have come in the form of a country hack who studied anatomy behind the barn with Geraldine the milkmaid, and whose training in surgical technique consisted of helping his father cut fence posts with an axe.

I imagined a crippled knight, trying to survive one-handed without any discernable job skills other than the ability to whack people with a sword. I imagined a once-great warrior reduced to relying on the generosity of friends and relatives, or perhaps begging in the street for his meals.

Then I began to imagine how, exactly, I was going to put on a pair of pants with only one arm.

(Follow along with Guillaume’s painfully funny account of recovery, rehabilition and repentance in his new book.)

Read more in “Here Comes the Reign, Sir Guillaume!”

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Copyright Scott Farrell, 2005

When my book This Sovereign Stage was published recently, I was thrilled by the response among the SCA’s academic community. Several of the most respected historical experts in the kingdom, including Mistress Maria-Theresa and my own mother, applauded my scholarly observations of theater in the Middle Ages with comments like: “Danny Kaye’s The Court Jester is not a primary resource,” and “Hamlet wasn’t a Scandinavian breakfast sandwich,” and “Don’t you think you should have done some actual research before writing this book?”

Clearly, I realized, they had missed the point of my writings about the medieval theatrical tradition. My book wasn’t about painstaking research and historical detail. It was based on one overarching premise that served as both a philosophical thesis and an analytical presupposition, thereby creating de facto donnée for my belles-lettres, which was this: Medieval theater was really bad.

Thus, in order to dispel any rumors that my research into thespian history was either faulty or, God forbid, fabricated, in this chapter I would like to present an overview of theater and drama from antiquity to the Middle Ages. Then, when I get finished, I’m going to go eat my Hamlet and bacon.

Classics on the Boards

Experts have a hard time agreeing on when the art form we know as theater began. (That’s primarily due to the fact that “experts” tend to be a bunch of self-important blowhards who would probably have a hard time agreeing on what kind of pizza to order for lunch.) Most believe that the origins of drama are lost in the mists of time, probably around 30,000 years ago when one Neolithic caveman accidentally hit another with a mastodon bone and a crowd of onlookers laughed themselves silly.

One of the earliest documented theatrical presentations began in Egypt around 2500 B.C. when priests created the Memphite Drama. This multi-part ritualistic show, performed on the first day of spring, was a re-enactment of the murder of the god Osiris by his brother Seth. (Thus creating a form of theatrical interaction that can be seen today on The Jerry Springer Show.) The Memphite Drama was staged annually for more than 1,900 years — a record for continual performance that was only recently surpassed by the Broadway run of Oh! Calcutta!

Theater as we know it, however, began in Greece in the 6th century B.C. There, presentations of tragic drama were performed as part of the City Dionysia, a festival whose name is derived from the fact that naming a festival after a mythological god sounds much more sophisticated than calling it, “six days of drunken riots.”

Although early stage productions focused on themes of death, betrayal, horror, sacrifice and grief, the Greeks soon invented the concept of “comedy” when audiences, having sat through several hundred hours of suicides, incest, betrayals and anguish, realized that they needed to (as theatrical scholars say) “lighten up.”

The greatest of all Greek comedy writers was Aristophanes, whose works include The Clouds, The Wasps, The Frogs, The Dingoes, The Police, The Rolling Stones, and that cult classic, The Thesmophoriazusae. But undoubtedly the greatest of all Aristophanes’ work is The Birds, which includes such brilliant comic scenes as the two main characters being startled by a slave jumping out of a thicket and, in response, defecating on stage. (As God is my witness, I’m not making that up!)

Roman Around the Theater

Greek theater came to an end in 404 B.C. when the Spartans invaded Athens after learning that matinee tickets for Miss Saigon were sold out. After this, theatrical performance moved to Rome where it took on a very different aspect.

In Rome, dramatic productions were staged as part of the Imperial festivals, which took place approximately every 48 minutes. This was good in the sense that there was lots of theater in Rome, but it was bad in the sense that stage plays had to compete with other forms of entertainment, such as gladiators, chariots, prisoners being fed to wild animals, exotic dancers, NAASCAR races, and Britney Spears concerts. And lets face it, when you have a choice between watching people in masks mince around a stage for three hours or seeing someone get eaten by a bear … well, let’s just say there’s a reason that PBS has to beg for donations while guys with names like A-Train and Ultimo Dragon get paid millions of dollars to appear on the WWF Smackdown.

The most popular type of Roman theater, however, was called mime — a form of comedy that, as we would say today, was “intended for mature audiences only.” In mime performances, viewers laughed at such delightful, humorous presentations as simulated sex on stage, obese people eating massive quantities of food, fist fights, actual sex on stage and public executions. Mime performances also included jugglers, acrobats, tightrope walkers, dancers and clowns — just to make sure the audience didn’t get bored if there was a slow spot in the sex and violence.

In Roman theater, however, nothing could compare with the most popular target for comedic ridicule: Christianity. Many mime performances featured distorted parodies of baptism and mass, which is undoubtedly why playwrights and actors suddenly began to find themselves out of work when Christian emperors rose to power in the 2nd and 3rd centuries A.D. At the Trullan Council of 692, when Pope Sergius placed a ban on all forms of theatrical performance, His Holiness is said to have proclaimed, “Let’s see thou laughest at excommunication, vile stage monkeys!” …

Read more in “Here Comes the Reign, Sir Guillaume!”

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Is there anything more knightly than strolling along through an English meadow with a trained bird of prey on your arm? Well, okay, repressing the peasants and refusing to wash your gambeson come to mind … but you get the point. Seeing a hawk on the arm of a falconer is certainly an image right out of the Middle Ages.

Ironically, for us “American-ized” knightly types, the closest you’re going to get to a real bird of prey is in some kind of wildlife show at a zoo or amusement park — and even there, they’re going to disguise what the hawk does (which is, technically, “kill stuff”) with all kinds of feel-good language about “natural behaviors” and “environmental stimulus” and “the circle of life.” Unless you’re willing to undergo years of intensive training, you’re not likely to ever have a hawk flying under your own control.

Which is why, on our recent trip to England, we were quite enthusiastic to discover the Forest of Dean Falconry Center, where they offer full-day “adult flying lessons” in which you can handle, fly and (with just a bit of luck) hunt with hawks and falcons under the guidance of professional falconers. We couldn’t sign up fast enough.

Our falconers were Andrew Nedoma and Graham Howley, the directors of the center. They began our session by introducing us to the birds and allowing us to sit with them (the birds, not Andrew and Graham) on our gloves in order to be sure that having birds of prey just inches away from our personal eyeballs would not (as they say in England) “freak us out.”

Then we proceeded to a nearby meadow for some field time with Dodger, the Harris hawk. We sent Dodger ahead into the branches of a tree, then strolled along for about 100 yards or so, and then Graham instructed me to put a small bit of meat on my glove, which was Dodger’s signal to come back and chow down. Then Felinah and I repeated the process again and again over the course of several beautiful English miles.

Now I know this doesn’t actually sound like hunting; it pretty much sounds like playing “tag” with a hawk. Here’s how Graham explained it:

For better or worse, we never found any game for Dodger to strike at, but we did have a great afternoon, and we gave Dodger a good work-out (as measured in quantity of meat consumed in the course of the session). Andrew and Graham are extremely skilled falconers; their methods were always gentle, patient and respectful of the birds. They would make fine falconers for a knight, duke or king of any realm.

If you are ever in Gloucestershire, I highly recommend scheduling a day at the Dean Falconry Center. (Also, there’s lots of interesting information on falconry on their website.)

Visit them at: www.ForestFalconry.co.uk

Say to the people in your office that you’re going to spend a whole day of your vacation getting lectured on the technical specifications of 14th century arms and armor and you’ll get some funny looks. (Trust me on that … ) But say you’re going to get to handle real, medieval weaponry and —- well, you’re still going to get funny looks, but, let’s face it, who cares?

Despite the funny looks from our friends, neighbors and co-workers, Felinah and I, along with several of our Chepstow tournament companions, arranged to spend a day touring “behind the scenes” at the Royal Armouries at Leeds.

The Royal Armouries moved from the Tower of London to a brand-new facility in Leeds in the mid-90’s. The new museum provides the staff with a fantastic amount of space, which they’ve used to great effect. Unlike most museum galleries, which are devoted to specific periods of history (Egyptian, Roman, Renaissance, etc.) the galleries at Leeds are segregated to focus on the intended function of the items on display. There’s a gallery dedicated to hunting, another on self-defense, and another on warfare. But the thing that will probably make every SCA member’s eyes light up is the fact that there’s a whole gallery devoted to tournaments and jousting.

The Armouries is also unique in that it’s set up to help you forget you’re looking at a bunch of antiques locked inside glass cases. Every display area incorporates four elements: the historical pieces (of course), as well as ongoing video displays, interactive computer demonstrations, and live interpreters in costumes and armor putting on shows of jousting, sword-fighting, falconry, archery and shooting. There is (to say the least) a lot to be seen here.

As much as we all would have enjoyed strolling leisurely through displays (and believe me, we could easily have spent several days doing that), we had been given an invitation to meet with the Armouries’ academic director as “ambassadors” of both the SCA and the Chivalry Today Educational Program. We expected to simply shake hands and get a “welcome to the museum” speech; instead, we were treated as honored guests and given the opportunity to view and handle a wide variety of historical pieces in order to help us improve the understanding and awareness of chivalry and medieval history in the United States.

Which is a really fancy way of saying, “We got to handle real swords and armor!” (But, of course, that doesn’t sound very professional.) Yes, the accompanying photo shows me with my grubby mitts wrapped around a 14th century longsword. (The museum director eventually pried it out of my grasp, but I put up a good fight.) Here’s the surprise we discovered at the Royal Armouries: You don’t have to be Conan the Barbarian to wield a medieval sword. While a lot of spectators who come to Ren Faires and SCA events consider our wooden swords “fake” because they’re way too light, the truth is the sword I’m holding in the picture weighs a few ounces under 3 lbs.

I also handled a pair of 14th and 15th century broadswords (that is, 36″ swords meant to be used in one hand), each of which tipped the scales at around 2 lbs. The director of the sword collection explained that even the Scottish claymores on display, which are between 5′ and 6′ long, have an average weight of just 5 lbs.

So, it seems that the pound-per-foot rule we generally adhere to in the SCA is reasonably realistic – not “way too light.” The swords should be as heavy as a Chevy bumper rule I’ve seen utilized in some other “live steel” re-enactment groups borders on ludicrous — at least, according to the director of the Royal Armouries. (And, after all, what does he know?)

But the biggest surprise of all in Leeds was that re-enactors (both visiting “ambassadors” and the on-staff members of the Armouries) are treated as serious scholars, not overgrown geeks obsessed with swords-and-sorcery. As the director explained to me:

Going to the Royal Armouries provided some great new information for historical research, but it also reminded me that what we do in the SCA (and other re-enactment groups) is more than just fun-and-games. Putting on armor and taking part in tournaments on the weekends is a way of learning about the past, and of bringing history to life for others — and that is a responsibility that shouldn’t be taken lightly.

The Royal Armouries is definitely a vacation spot that any history buff should visit – regardless of the funny looks from the people in your office.

Visit the www.royalarmouries.org for information regarding current displays and events, as well as several outstanding articles on the history of arms and armor.

The “main event” of our trip to England was, not surprisingly, a tournament at Chepstow castle. When we arrived at the castle gate on the morning of the tournament, we were (as you might imagine) a bit apprehensive. After all, not only were we a bunch of foreigners trying to portray English history to English people, but we were also keenly aware that in many circles the name of the SCA is associated less with the words, “serious historical scholarship” than with the words “chain mail bikinis.” We hoped we could live up to the quality of the environment we were about to enter.

Fortunately, we had lots of help from the Chepstowe Garrison, a historical re-enactment group based in the castle. With the assistance of Roger, Thom, Amanda, Beryl and Josh, who graciously loaned us benches, tables, two arming tents and their combat arena, we soon had the castle’s lower bailey looking just like it might have in 1189, when William Marshal took possession of the castle as part of the dowry of his wife, Isabella de Claire. In fact, the lower bailey and the gatehouse it protects were built under the supervision of the famous Earl of Pembroke and star of the European “tourney circuit,” so we hoped that maybe the spirit of William Marshal was looking down on our little tournament with a smile from one of the upper windows of the nearby tower.

With all of us in our costumes and armor, it was time to open the castle gates and begin the tournament. We all gathered in the middle of the sunny field to hear the words of King Renee of Anjou, one of the most famous knights of the 15th century and author of The Book of the Tournament, which provided the inspiration for the activities of the day:

For those of us in the armor, fighting in the castle was an amazing experience. Typically at an SCA event you’re looking around at things like shopping malls, basketball courts, parking lots or freeway overpasses — all things that blatantly remind you: This ain’t anything like the Middle Ages. Looking through the eyeslots of my helm during the Chepstow tournament, all I could see was … castle! I have to admit that there were several times I was admiring the scenery so much that I had to force myself to remember Sir Padraic or Baron Thorvald was over on the other side of the lists field, trying to whack me with a sword.

During the course of the day, several hundred spectators came to the castle to see our SCA demonstration. (Sir Padraic and Lady Runa even went strolling through the streets of the town to generate visitors.) Although we were worried that in the land of “real medieval history” our combat style — which is done with wooden swords instead of steel ones — would be scoffed at, in reality, everyone seemed sincerely intrigued that we were actually hitting each other. They respected the fact that our rattan weapons gave us the ability to carry out our fighting techniques without any worry of “pulling blows” or “choreographed movements.”

We demonstrated both sword and shield combat, and two-handed great sword combat. (If you really want an amusing story, find me at an SCA event in the future and ask me how much fun it is to check wooden great swords through the TSA baggage screening station.) All of our fights were done in “counted blows” style (three blows received), and we concluded our matches with the defeated fighter surrendering his sword and yielding, rather than “falling down dead.” Since two of the SCA’s more laughable customs are fighting from your knees (“Come back here! I’ll bite yer kneecaps off!”) and playing dead, we decided to eliminate those aspects in respect for the authenticity of the castle atmosphere.

Another thing that caused us some initial concern was the fact that two of our fighters were, technically, women. For those of you keeping score at home, the number of period references to women competing in jousting tournaments is: zero. (Yes, there are several accounts of women fighting in wars, going on Crusade and taking part in judicial duels — but history seems to be silent regarding women participating in jousting tournaments.)

Knowing this, we were somewhat worried that our lady-fighters would cause us to lose credibility with the spectators at Chepstow. Turns out, our worries were completely groundless: Everyone who spoke with Baroness Ceridwen and Duchess Felinah congratulated them for “getting out there with the boys,” and every time one of them won a fight against one of the male fighters, the castle courtyard echoed with applause.

Of course, we took plenty of time in-between our tournament fights to stroll through the castle and enjoy being part of the medieval atmosphere. Finally, as the shadow of the castle wall grew long across the field, it was time to pack up our armor and head home. As we were leaving I wanted to stand for one last picture in the gateway of William Marshal’s castle, and as I did, the gate opened up and Nina, the castle manager, poked her head out and asked: “Would you like this?”

Then, she handed me a key — the key to the castle! There aren’t many knights, I suspect, that can truthfully say they’ve taken a castle after a day of battle. I considered it quite an honor, and I look forward to a day (in the not-too-distant future) when I can use that key to open the gates at Chepstow once again to begin another wonderful SCA tournament in the courtyard.

And when I do, I hope a great many of my friends, readers and fellow “American-ized” SCA knights will be there to join me. I’ll guarantee it will be a day you’ll not soon forget!

Chepstow is one of the many fine castles and historical sites managed by Cadw. To find out more about visiting these sites when you are in Britain, visite the Cadw website: www.cadw.wales.gov.uk

Copyright Scott Farrell, 2001

After many years in the Society, I sometimes find myself in strange situations and wonder,

Because of my experience with the SCA, I often find myself looking at the most mundane situations and searching for some sort of historical lesson. Sometimes this provides insight resulting in efficient problem solving and communication; more often it makes people wonder if I’m taking some kind of prescription medication.

Recently I had occasion to stay in the home of Lady Laurana’s parents after an out-of-town tournament, along with about a dozen other Calafians who had traveled to the event. Sunday morning, Laurana’s father, who we’ll call “Bill” (because that’s his name), was making pancakes and trying to keep six hungry fighters, including a majority of the Calafian chivalry, from eating every carbon-based item in his kitchen. We had already devoured two loaves of bread, half a leftover pizza, a whole plate of fresh fruit, a dozen bagels, and a five-pound box of Cap’n Crunch with Crunchberry cereal which Sir Ryan specifically requested as his breakfast of choice and which Lord Patrick thought was extremely tasty when mixed into a bowl of granola.

During the course of breakfast conversation, (“Please put the furniture down! I promise I’ll make more pancakes.”) Sir Attila mentioned that he had once been in the landscaping business – a fact which Bill hoped to use to his advantage. Soon after breakfast, Bill took Ryan and Attila outside to look at a huge rock beside the driveway which, Bill told them, he was thinking of moving to the back yard.

The rock was about the size of your average side-by-side refrigerator, and, in Attila’s estimation, weighed “way too much for us guys to move.” Ryan, on the other hand, thought that several tough fighters could easily carry the gargantuan boulder to the back yard as a token of repayment for Bill’s hospitality.

After a few minutes of discussion, they were joined by myself, Sir Caius, and Patrick, and the six of us decided to give the rock a trial lift – against the advice of Attila, who I think suspected (correctly) that if we so much as laid a finger on the rock we were not going to stop until the job was done, no matter how many people perished in the process.

Unfortunately, this half-ton behemoth of a rock cunningly thwarted all of our attempts to move it by pure knightly brute force. At this point, Bill, being a reasonable person, said, “This rock is a lot heavier than I thought. Let’s just skip it.”

Until now, the whole rock-moving incident was pretty run-of-the-mill – something you’d see in hundreds of back yards on any given weekend all across the country. The difference is this: An average batch of guys would, at this point, have broken out a “sixer” of beer, turned on the Sunday Afternoon Football Pre-Morning Locker Room Warm-Up Show, and spent the rest of the day scratching their groinal regions; but we, with our unique historical perspective, weren’t going to be outsmarted by a rock.

Attila said: “How did the Egyptians move their stones when they built the pyramids?” Of course, he said this with a straight face, and he fully expected that someone in the crowd would have the answer. Ryan replied that the Egyptians had thousands of slaves to move their rocks, but since we only had one squire present, we quickly ruled that method out.

Man: User of Tools

We moved on to the “Man: User of Tools” phase of the project when someone remembered Archimedes’ theory of leverage. Then, Bill, who was feeling a little uncertain about the whole idea but who didn’t want to stand in the way of innovation, brought three long steel bars from his garage to use as levers. With a great amount of whooping and leaping about, we managed to lever the rock a distance of nearly two feet during the course of the next 15 minutes.

Wonders of the Ancient World

Next we came to the “Wonders of the Ancient World” project phase. Sir Caius, delving deeply into his historical knowledge, said,

Attila replied, “The Celts were morons. Look at Stonehenge, they didn’t know what they were doing. We need wheels! The Hungarians used wheels! Is there a cart around here?”

“No,” said Caius, “The Celts were great. I’m telling you the rollers will work …”

Suddenly, I realized these six grown men, who were engaged in a project that had begun as nothing more than the moving of a rock, had quickly turned the task into a debate about the technological developments of the medieval world and how these techniques could be put to use with common household items. Where else but in the SCA?

We found a cart which we were fairly confident was strong enough to hold the rock and, using our levers (and the Persian idea of a “fulcrum” tossed in by Felinah just for good measure) we got the rock about half-way onto the cart. After 30 minutes of levering and pushing and grunting and sweating, we and our Hungarian wheels had moved the rock the better part of 10 yards, with Caius and Ryan, the whole time, trying to convince us how much easier the job would be if we used Celtic rollers instead.

At that point, the cart proved that, in fact, it wasn’t strong enough and dumped the rock into Bill’s woodpile. “You see,” said Caius, “the Hungarians knew nothing about moving rocks. They only knew how to make goulash. We need rollers.”

As we were trying to resurrect the cart, Ryan went off and found two short pieces of pipe to use as rollers; we jammed them under the rock, still dubious about this fabled piece of Celtic lore, and gave a shove. All of us, even Bill, were amazed as the huge boulder moved easily, even gracefully, forward. I felt like Luke Skywalker watching Yoda levitate the spaceship from the swamp using The Force, and I would have gone on feeling surprised even longer if, just at that moment, the rock hadn’t crashed down off the rollers about two inches from my foot.

Caius responded with his typical restraint and tact:

(You can find the answer to the age-old question, “Which is smarter, the fighter or the rock?” in the conclusion of this story in Guillaume’s book.)

Read more in “We Are Not Amused, Sir Guillaume!”

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Copyright Scott Farrell, 2001

When a new fighter is introduced to the sport of SCA combat, his first thought is often, “What is that smell?” Then, as the novice gets to know some of the skilled and seasoned warriors of the Society, he finds that he has the desire to attempt to beat them with a stick – a desire which is shared by many other members of the Society (including many of their spouses) who are thwarted only by the marshals’ unreasonable regulation against allowing them onto the field without the proper protection.

Finally, the new fighter realizes that he must make his own armor if he is going to “get serious” about participating in SCA combat. Of course, once a fighter’s armor is complete, a certain amount of maintenance is required as anything that is beaten with a club two or three times a week is going to require repair eventually – except, of course, for major internal organs in a fighter’s cranial region, which will eventually just cease to function due to excessive damage.

As much as I would like to hold an armor workshop to help all the fighters of the Known World maintain their armor and weapons, I can’t because my garage is not that big. Instead, I would like to present a sample armor workshop schedule so that any fighter can hold an efficient and successful armor-making event.

Armor Workshop Sample Schedule

4:45 p.m. – I arrive home after work and prepare for intensive and productive armor workshop. I clear the workbench of camping gear, gardening catalogs, Neil Diamond cassette tapes, portable stereo, Christmas lights, and coffee mugs. I arrange various armor-making tools so everyone will have easy access.

5:00 p.m. – Several fighters arrive and begin to unload suits of armor in various stages of construction or repair from their cars, then set out to begin Serious Work.

5:05 p.m. – One of the newer fighters announces that his goal at this workshop is to complete an entire suit of 13th century brigantine and mail armor with the material he has brought with him, but he is uncertain how the armor should be buckled. I tell him that I’m sure I have a book with some illustrations of the Battle of Crecy which he may find helpful.

5:06 p.m. – The entire armor workshop adjourns to my bookshelf to conduct “research” into various armor and weapons styles using such respected reference books as The Norman Conquest, The Chronicles of the Crusades, Mongol Warlords, Battles in Britain, The Complete Star Trek Companion, The Essential Calvin & Hobbes, Dave Barry Turns 40, The Ultimate Chocolate Cookbook, and The Art of Nude Photography.

5:45 p.m. – With several sketches of armor and several cups of hot chocolate, we decide it is time to return to the workshop to begin Serious Work.

5:50 p.m. – One of the fighters discovers he has forgotten the rivets he was going to use to repair his leg armor. He subsequently announces that he cannot finish the project and packs away his armor.

5:51 p.m. – Lord Wolfnoth arrives to proudly display his new director’s cut DVD of “The Warlord” starring Charlton Heston. He also tells us that he is going to make himself a new helm in the style worn by Draco in the movie.

5:55 p.m. – The entire armor workshop adjourns for five to 10 minutes to view a short portion of “The Warlord” and offer advice on helm construction.

6:00 p.m. – After watching the opening scene of the movie, we advance the tape to review other sequences in the movie which are judged to be useful as armor-making references, such as the scene where the Frisians are burning the tower, the scene where Charlton Heston threatens to chop his brother into little pieces, and, of course, the scene where Charlton Heston rescues the pretty maiden from the evil clutches of her clothing.

6:45 p.m. – Feeling inspired by the fierce battle sequences, we return to the armor workshop to begin Serious Work.

6:50 p.m. – Another fighter discovers that the chin strap he had hoped to attach to his helm was forgotten at home. He announces that he cannot finish the project and packs his armor.

6:55 p.m. – Lord Acelin arrives with two full cartons of Double Chocolate Chunky Devils Food Fudge ice cream. The entire armor workshop adjourns to consume the ice cream because “we would hate to let it melt.”

7:00 p.m. – We decide that two half-gallons of ice cream is not enough to feed the seven people present at the armor workshop, so we send a reconnaissance team to the local supermarket to procure two more cartons.

7:35 p.m. – Supermarket strike team returns with one carton of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream and one carton of Marshmallow Goo Supreme, along with three Sarah Lee pound cakes, two quarts of whipped cream and two jars of microwave hot fudge.

7:45 p.m. – As the hot fudge is warming in the microwave and one of the fighters is collecting cups for a second serving of hot chocolate, someone suggests we put in the videotape of the “Connections” episode about the Norman Conquest.

7:46, 7:48, 7:52, 7:57 p.m. – “Connections” tape is rewound and played repeatedly over the segment where James Burke uses the broadsword to hack apart a side of beef; the levels of shouting and cheering involved in each replay cause the neighbors to wonder if there is a game of Australian-rules football being played in the kitchen.

8:15 p.m. – The fighters decide it’s time to return to the workshop and begin Serious Work. …

(Will any armor be successfully repaired tonight? You won’t know until you read Guillaume’s book.)

Read more in “We are Not Amused, Sir Guillaume!”

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Copyright Scott Farrell, 2001

There is a wonderful old saying that goes,

Because of this, we can see the immense value of insightful, well-researched essays and documents which put the events of the Middle Ages into perspective. For example, a scholarly study of the Norman Conquest of England and the famous Battle of Hastings would provide insight into an event of immeasurable political, cultural and military impact. I was hoping to include one in this book, but frankly, it sounds like a lot of work, so instead, I’ll just make some stuff up as I go along.

Sacking The Saxons

At the beginning of 1066 A.D., the King of England, Edward “Fast Eddie” the Confessor, lay dying. Edward was best known for his famous quote,

England’s system of Royal Succession was based on Danish/Saxon tradition which mandated that the wise men and leaders of England all come together for a “Whitnegamot” (An old Anglo-Saxon term meaning “square dance”) in order to elect the new King based on the ability to govern with foresight and justice – or, if this proved too difficult, they also had the option of electing a new King based on who gave them the most gold.

After the death of Edward, the men of the Whitnegamot decided, after days of debate and more than a few casks of ale, that it was time to elevate a young, energetic fellow by the name of Harold “The Sap” Godwinson, to the throne. “It’s quite an honor to be your new King,” Harold said in a speech at his coronation. Your faith in my leadership and judgment fills me with pride. And now, it’s time to raise your taxes.”

The choice of Harold as King of all England did not sit well with the nobility of other nations, most of whom were trying to come up with some feeble excuse why they should be King of all England. The top competitor for this title was William “Billabong” of Normandy, whose major campaign theme in the race for the crown was, “Grandma slept with the King.” William decided to visit England to demonstrate that the enlightened, progressive system of royal selection employed by the Saxons was slightly inferior to that of the Normans, in which governmental representation and political foresight were replaced with swords, torches, spears, crossbows and catapults.

Although most of the people of England felt that two oppressors … sorry, we meant, “candidates,” were enough, a third “independent” participant decided to throw his helmet in the ring. His name was Harald “I’m not the other guy named Harold” Hardrede, King of Norway. To Harald, England was the key to reaching his ultimate dream: to sit on the throne of a “Northern Byzantine Empire,” which was a fairly silly idea since there were relatively few Byzantines to be found in the area. He had noticed, you see, that the Byzantine Emperor received his taxes mainly in the form of gold, gems, silk, spices, and incense, wherea s Harald, as King of Norway, received his taxes mainly in the form of sheep, sheep skins, wool, mutton and fleas. This was the situation he hoped to rectify (or at least escape) by invading England.

William And The Wind Bags

Meanwhile, William gathered his knights on the northern coast of Normandy. His challenge was to cross the English Channel in ships devoid of technologically advanced propulsion systems, such as “oars.” In fact, the Norman ships were driven by a system known to historians as, “a big bedsheet tied to the top.”

Hampered by this lack of a discretionary sailing system, William’s army partied … sorry, we meant, “exercised,” waiting for the navigators’ signal that the wind had shifted toward England and that it was time to have the Norman Invasion. From the navigators’ point of view, this was quite a set-up; as long as the wind wasn’t blowing toward England, they got to sit on the beach, eat William’s food, drink William’s ale, and carouse with William’s camp followers. As soon as the wind shifted toward England, they got to sail overseas, get shot at, build castles, fight Saxons, and probably die.

“Italy,” the navigators would say to William in the morning. “Wind’s headin’ right toward Italy today.” Then the next morning it would be, “Poland today, Will. If we sail with this wind we’ll end up in Poland. Or maybe Egypt.”

Finally, when William’s food supply was nearly exhausted and many of his barons and knights were beginning to wander off aimlessly, he asked the navigators, “Which way would the wind blow if I were to burn down your homes, kill your children, and boil you in oil?” “Whoa, look at that!” the navigators said collectively. “There goes that pesky old wind heading right toward England.” …

(We don’t want to spoil the end of this story, which you can enjoy in Guillaume’s book.)

Read more in “We Are Not Amused, Sir Guillaume!”

$12.99 + s&h