The Ballad Of Sir Tancred

The Strength of His Oath
~
He travels over water in the fords,
Across the fire of desert sands,
Through forests and through barren lands,
Against the by far better funded hordes,
With only unent bows and dull-edged swords,

Sir Tancred, loyal always to his king,
In every duel, in every war,
He does exactly as he swore.
His loyal oath shown by his right thumb ring,
God's praises to the king, the knight e'er sings.

“Go out and conquer land for me, the crown.
Collect and raise the peasant's tax;
No payments, then bring out the ax,”
Said King Deraine in silver regal gown.
And so the knight left, heading towards the town.

Upon entrance into the town of Poe,
Sir Tancred finds a trio of lost kids,
But helping them, the king forbids,
And if he helped them, He will know,
E'en if that family paid all they owed.

He then trips o'er a large and broken stone,
A piece of pottery did jut,
Beside two broken-down dirt huts.
But no one sees him, when he falls down prone,
And luckily for them, he’s all alone.

But why do they have fate so filled with luck,
When many other people died,
Just so the knights can keep their pride?
The King had started it when he first struck
A child who spit at him, and then it stuck.

The good knight now continues ‘long the road,
And sees a man in ragged beggar’s clothes,
A garden of peas green he hoes.
Sir Tancred smiles, that old unspoken code,
To tell the man to pay what he still owed.

The old man shrugs his shoulders just of bone;
He has no coins, no sense of wealth.
He has naught but his hut and health.
The children all have either died, are grown.
Excluding his old mule, This man's alone.

Sir Tancred then holds out a burlap sack,
Now waiting for the sound of alms,
But he owns naught but praising psalms.
Sir Tancred frowns; his whip now cracks,
The axes now proceed to raze the shack.

The knight knows it’s wrong,
But he swore to his king,
Upon his thumb ring,
To uphold the edicts all along,
For the King’s word is mighty and strong.

The bard muses:
“But what is better in the eyes of man,
To have good morals or to be loyal,
Especially when the liege is such a royal.
If he says do all the wrong you can,
Is it okay to back out of the plan?

But I digress and get back to the tale,
Of the loyal and shining knight,
Who does what the king says is right.
He’ll do this on hill or on dale,
And we know he will fornever fail.”

Sir Tancred goads his horse,
Past the hut, now in splinters,
No longer a shield against harsh winters,
And the knight with hair so coarse,
Looked back at the hut with no remorse.

The knight reaches the city square,
And sees many children playing,
And a farce of a dragon slaying,
For it is time for the annual fair,
A treat in this city, so rare.

What’s the event that caused this show,
This spectacle not oft seen?
It’s the anniversary of the death of the queen,
The queen with the body of dough
And an anger that was never slow.

It’s hard to imagine but it was worse,
When she was still with the king.
All felt her wrath, all felt her sting,
All despised her and gave her a curse,
And all cheered when they put her in the hearse.

And on that year, ‘neath the sun’s ray
The king gave his royal vow,
To make it, forever and now,
That all could rest and all could play,
But only, and only, on this day.

The knight jumps off his loyal steed,
And walks among the joyful crowd,
And he thinks that they are far too loud,
But Sir Tancred knows this is something they need,
In order to quell the king’s insatiable greed.

He walks over to the merchant stand,
And gives the owner the smile, or code.
The owner says:
“I gave the other knight whatever I owed,
I put the coins directly in his hand.”
But it seems the owner had this story planned.

The knight says:
“Why should you be singled out,
When you’re too stupid to know,
That I am the collector of all the King’s dough.
So pay it twice then and don’t dare pout.”
The owner says:
“But good Sir, we’re in a drought.

I cannot sell things I do not own.
I have no wares, none at all.
Nothing to sell in my humble stall.
The game’s not butchered, the grains not grown.
You can’t feed a family on love alone.”

In the middle of this happy affair,
Sir Tancred speaks his piece,
Among white ducks and beheaded geese.
The knight says:
“About your problems, why should I care?
They are not mine and not yours to share.

Just pay your taxes; just pay your dues,
Pay the money you owe your king.”
Between a child that laughs and children who sing,
Stands a man with, on his cheek, a bruise,
And watches the merchant this battle lose.

That stranger watches and waits,
For he knows his time will come,
When he’ll strike the royalty dumb.
But then he turns to the gates
And walks out, through a maze of crates.

The owner says:
“But I have no money, no change, no bills.”
The knight says:
“Then your stand will no longer stand.”
With that, he cracks his whip in hand
And shudders, for his spine had chills,
Maybe from a wind or possibly the day’s thrills.

Sir Tancred walks over to his ride
And jumps in the saddle once more,
As if riding was once fun but now is a chore.
The horse walks and people crowd to the side,
Away from the knight, as not to be eyed.

He continues through the dirty, dank town
Until a man stops him in the street,
The man without shoes on his feet.
The shoeless man says:
“Come off your horse and down to the ground.
I have something to say to that foolish crown.”

The knight jumps onto the dirt.
The knight says:
“Yes I’m down. Now what must you say?”
The shoeless man says:
“To you, this town will no longer pay.
My child, he will no longer hurt
And no longer will his back be without shirt.

For his legacy of tyranny and our pain,
We will rebel; the king will die.
No longer will these people sit and lie.
Over us, this king will no longer reign.
For freedom, we will break the chain.”

Sir Tancred looks at the dirty peasant.
The knight says:
“Noble words from such a humble man.
I’ll tell the king you’re a big fan
And your life will be the present.
Death, for you, will be so pleasant.”

Drawing a long sword from its sheath,
The knight swiftly beheads the man,
Whose body soon drops onto the land.
The head falls, with clicking teeth,
Landing on the body and not beneath.

Leaving the body in dust and dirt,
The knight mounts his mighty steed.
He leaves now, so says his creed.
The bard muses:
“Does his heart or soul ever hurt,
When he kills a man for not being curt?”


NOTE: This is the first part of a longer ballad, concerning Sir Tancred and the importance of loyalty in the face of moral rights and wrongs. If the ballad feels unfinished, it is because it is. I hope to finish this soon.