When sprightly Springtime spreads out her gown

Sir Gamyl of Mottrum
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLI

When sprightly Springtime spreads out her gown
Of greening growth on the ground beneath,
Then crowds come crawling, craving a crown,
Ready to reach for the rosemary wreath.
Hordes of the hopefuls hurry to town,
Ardent and artful and armed to the teeth
Preparing to pull all opponents down.
And sliding his sword from its silken sheath

Was one

Whose eyes shone like enamel—

’Twas Mottrum’s pride, Sir Gamyl.

Untied from every trammel,

His hopes were primed to run.

First he must face a feisty foe —
Thorfinn Voouselur, valiant and game.
He leapt with a lunge that laid him low
Then sought for a second to serve him the same.
Thorin O’Seaghda threatened a throw
But the Sassenach’s sword had more certain aim.
How far through the field would our fighter go?
Would Gamyl soon grace his given name

With “King”?

His match with Master Korwyn

Gave Gamyl yet one more win,

And conquests by the score win

That second christening.

But ere one can come to be christened and crowned,
Longer through lists one must live, and be last.
Sir Rhys Ravenscroft rose the next round
To find and fulfill what the Fates had forecast
And got but the grant of a grave’s worth of ground.
More wins for Mottrum, and mounting up fast!
Well might he wonder, as his weapon wound
Its point into Padraic, if peril was past.

But no!

He found he must instead ward

Against the swift Sir Edward

Who struck and sent him bedward

To nurse a stunning blow.

Hilt once more hefted and held in hand,
Sir Gamyl regained his grounding again,
Swearing to stay there and stick to his stand
Through terror or torment or even Round Ten!
Mikhail of the Kuma, from Corvus’ band,
Could hope of no help from his hardy men
When he felt the furious flailing land.
The title seemed Gamyl’s to take — but then

(Ah me!)

He had to fight Sir Drogo.

His chances were a no-go;

He watched his final foe go

To claim the victory.

Danyel is downcast and dabbing her eyes,
Dropping tears drying on draperies of black.
Great are her groans and her grievous sighs
For her loved one’s loss, not the lesser lack
Of a princess’ precious and pretty prize.
“Good God, go give me my Gamyl back,
Don’t leave me alone and forlorn!” she cries,
And her cries are replied with a crashing crack

Of thunder—

“My darling child, remember

There’s still spark in an ember;

Just wait until September

And you shall see a wonder!”

— Mistress Maritsa Milovich

... who enjoys a good bob-and-wheel

Copyright

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