Chanson de Mora

For Her Majesty, Mora de Buchanan, in Honour of the Inspiration She gives to Caid. From Fall Crown Tourney A.S. XLIII

Chanson de Mora

Une Fabliau Normaund

(octosyllabic couplets)

There, underneath a storm torn sky
beneath the wheeling raven's cry
from barbacane the Archers work
embroiled in mad Discorde's Cirque
while Mars, exultant, whirls 'round
besieged soldats defend their town.
Like wolves appearing from le Nord
the army came, a cunning horde
attacking at the Porte des Champs
bypassing farms and noisome swamps
they came to enforce ancient claim
to retake lands in King's demesne.

-- o --

The battle's focus is this gate --
to be decided, Le Comte's fate;
commanding from the enceinte-way
the usurper, Comte de Beauvais
a brutal man of basest needs
well-known for his appalling deeds.
"Chevalier -- la!" he screams in fury
the soldiers near seem in no hurry
to respond to his commandes
Le Comte's not one who well responds
when vilains fail at his requests
expecting naught but full success.
A scarred and grizzled mercenaire
well seasoned vétéran de guerre
now turns and looks down Le Comte's sword
at Norman knight he's pointing toward
and with a sigh he glances back
then barks a name out to the pack
of L'Archers and L'arbalétriers,
who under Le Capitaine's care
have managed to survive this long
through expertise -- convictions strong.

-- o --

A soldier gaunt, petit of frame
steps forward at the shouted name
with a precision l'arbalète
most warily held cocked and set
Le Comte is halted with surprise
when he is captured by her eyes.
"Mais, Capitane what's this, mon Dieu
what do you idiotes try to do?
This is Une l'arbalétriESSE!
Pah, what can she do but undress?"
Le Capitane, with wry small grin
nods to Mora with jut of chin.
Mora steps to l'embrasure near
and one shot drops yon Cavalier.
Le Comte, he squeals with delight
and watches dying Norman knight
"Shoot La! et La! et La! et La,!"
Le Comte exclaims with great éclat
completely overcome with joy
a child with a deadly toy
as Mora meets his fell demands
his expectations soon expand
"Tirez leur Roi! There stands their King!
Tirez leur Roi, set bolt to wing!"
So Mora sights on kingly star --
"My weapon cannot reach so far." --
Le Comte he screams "fie, you disgrace"
And stepping forward slaps her face
then shoves her rudely to the ground --
O, no one yet dares make a sound,
though almost everyone nearby
would for the gentle Mora die,
they dare not him to disobey.

-- o --

"Un l'Arc! now, by God un l'Archer!"
and turning, Le Comte grabs a man
"So, kill yon King, tell me you can"
then shoves him at the battlement
and on and on and on it went
As longbows try for far-flung mark
the King still stands, unquenched his spark.
Le Comte is très frustrant by now
his miracle has flown somehow
The war forgotten fills his gaze
The gate beneath is now ablaze
he thought he might have won the day
all hopes the King has swept away.
He desperately looks him round
and spies below a barrow-mound
He gestures back at Mora now
"Madame I need you, I'll allow --
La colline, là-bas, from hill down there,
donc, could you kill old Drogo's heir?"
She can't escape, fait accompli
so answer gives, a simple "Oui"
Her Capitane begins to speak
he knows her chances look quite bleak
to ever make it back alive
She knows she mayhaps won't survive
but first she is a soldat vrais
since ordered to -- she'll die this day.

-- o --

Le Comte he bends to kiss her hand
Thank you, mon cher, now here's my plan
We'll send a squadron out Le Port
Get to the hill and make it short.
Too soon she finds her self amidst
the battles quickly closing fist
She climbs to barrow top and sees
King Edric standing 'neath the trees.
Most carefully sends bolt en air
fate left to Le Jeu de La Guerre.
The bolt is blocked by Garde Royale
who Pluton's reaping hath forestalled
She sees the Guard's all point her way
her missions hopes have been betrayed.
She loads and fires once again
Les Hommes du Roi are loyal men.

-- o --

The battle rages much too near
She cannot think no time for fear
Déesse Diane, please guide me now
O, Vous m'aidez , please show me how
She hooks her belt, steps on the loop,
launching carreau at yonder troupe.
Again Un Garde Royale is there
What's this? Two L'arbalétriers
with odd crossbows still tightly gripped
these fallen foes she quickly strips
then sees their weapons have -- a lever?
For quick reloads, mon dieu, how clever!
The Garde they mount and head her way
she knows, sans doute, she can't delay
With speed she loads all three crossbows,
ducks behind corpse, can't be exposed
She shoots at watching shield- man
then at another par l'autre main,
she fires true, they must react
allowing her her third attack
bolt is loosed from crossbow string
she kills Le Roi, Edric, the King.

-- o --

As Mora breathes a simple sigh
She hears the Norman army cry
"Le Roi est Mort, Le Roi est Mort!!"
O, now fan full the flames of war!
L'armée Normaund now goes berserk
and throw themselves to bloody work
La Vengeance their whole desire
not sated till they've burnt the pyre
Mora is running toward the gate
Le Comte has closed them! She's too late!
and looking up she sees him shrug
that Saligaud was always smug.
A noise behind her spins her round
A rumble grows along the ground
Un Chevalier comes riding fast
with banner's snap and trompette's blast
and charging roars out "Vive le Roi!"
With lance and sword, comes for Mora.
She feints to right then ducks to left
Lance it misses, but sword cuts deft,
as leather and torn maille did shred
her heaume was pulled from off her head
Voilà, bouquet des cheveux rouges!
Sunlight illumes le cerise hues
as Edward stares at La Vénus
the tourbillon it doth reduce
Le Guerre it finds a small surcease.

-- o --

There, standing in this sudden peace
Mora, c'est une femme majestueux,
glowers fierce and proud, bloody too
Prince Edwa... Non, Édouard Premiere!
but stands, staring, none interfere
a slow smile creeps onto his face.
he doffs his helm, salut-petit
Then Édouard, Roi, says (en Normaund)
"Milady, thy life I'll promote --
canst thou hit yon son-of-a-goat?"
Fair Mora blinks, glares at the King
then turns to look where he's pointing
Le Comte still rages sur la tour
foul cursing with les mots obscur
Mora turns to Édouard, Le Roi
"Certainment! Je déteste les bourgeois".

-- o --

~ FIN ~

This piece, in a very different format, was written for HRM Mora's Festival of the Rose. It was simply not good enough -- I had it done but was too unhappy with the result to present it. The above poem is the rewrite.

The typical form of French-language courtly literature both in Anglo-Norman England and on the continent was octosyllabic rhyming couplets; it is from these earlier French models that Chaucer and Gower took their poetic inspiration. Unfortunately, the French in the poem is modern French -- not Norman French. (Or else it would STILL not be done!)

— Secca de Cantia

More Information

• For Sound explanations and language translations, visit Secca's page (Site broken - 5/4/2010)

Copyright

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