Sir Tristan's Quest
Sir Tristan accompanied by Merlin traveled to the wild country adjacent to northern Wales and the old Roman town of Chesterorum. Tristan’s quest was to find the author Hank Quense while Merlin planned to visit an old colleague who lived nearby.
Tristan was clean-shaven, tall, broad-chested with light brown shoulder-length hair and fawn colored eyes. His puppy dog looks made women want to enfold him in their arms while they scratched his ears. He wore a yellow tunic over black trews with a royal blue cloak over all.
Merlin was tall and stooped-shouldered with a long, flowing white beard. He wore a gray robe with astrological symbols knitted into it.
The two men rode along a Roman road and in the distance they saw the walled town. The stone walls had collapsed in a few places and wood logs filled in the gaps. Tristan’s squire rode behind the two leading a mule carrying the knight’s armor and his lyre.
Once passed the walls, they entered a city that was mostly deserted. In Roman days, the town was a major city housing the administrators for the area and an entire legion. Now only a quarter of the houses were occupied and many empty houses were covered with weeds.
In the center of town, they found an inn and booked a room for the night. After a few days on the road, sleeping indoors would seem luxurious.
Tristan and Merlin left the room to catch up on the local happenings. In the main room, they bought cups of ale and chatted with the bartender.
“Not local are ye?” the man asked in a dialect that was difficult to understand. “Then ye must be here for the forkin’ poetry readin’s tomorrow. Aye?”
The man caught Tristan’s attention. “Poetry? Tell me more.”
“Down in front of the big stone buildin’,” the man pointed to his left, “ye’ll find a man who’ll sign ye up.”
Along the way, Merlin said, “I don’t think you should do this. This isn’t Camelot. People up here are different then the ones back home and you don’t know what they expect.”
“Nonsense. Great poetry is appreciated everywhere.”
Tristan found the man without trouble.
“Ye’re wantin’ to sign up for the forkin’ poetry read? It’ll be costing’ ye a silver penny. Winner gets all the coins.”
Tristan paid the entry fee.
“Out-of-towner's go first in the morn,” the man said. “Ye’ll be up second. After ye, our local lads’ll read their forkin’ poetry. Good luck to ye. Oh, the rules is posted here.” The man pointed to a parchment nailed to a wall.
“I’ve been in many poetry contests. I know the rules.”
On the way back to the inn, Tristan said, “These locals have a strange way of referring to poetry.”
“I noticed,” Merlin replied. “I wonder why that is.”
“Why doesn’t matter. I’ll win the money easily tomorrow. These locals have no idea what an accomplished, professional poet can do.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow at Tristan’s comment but said nothing. Tristan was the worst poet in Britain and possible even worse than any poet across the Narrow Sea. A king in Wales had once banned him from ever entering his kingdom again because of Tristan’s woeful poetry.
~ ~ ~
The morning of the contest dawned cool and overcast. In the town square, crowds gathered early to get a spot close to the temporary stage set up in front of the stone building.
Tristan and Merlin arrived and were directed to the poet’s area alongside of the stage. A dozen contestants had arrived ahead of them and the poets mumbled their lines or acted nervous as they waited their turn to go on stage.
A Master of Ceremony strode up the steps and walked on stage. “I bid you the joy of the mornin’, good folk. Welcome to the Forkin’ Poetry Contest. We have over twenty poets who will be recitin’ today and we’re lookin’ to have a good time listenin’ to them.
A man in the crowd tossed a rotten head of lettuce in the air, caught it and yelled, “We’re ready. Let’s get on wit it.”
“And so we will. Our first contestant is a farmer from ten miles down south. Let’s welcome Godric.”
Godric, red in the face and staring at the floor, shuffled into the center of the stage. He looked up at the crowd gave a shy smile, cleared his throat and said,
“Yesterday, don’t ask me how
I forked a cow.
Today, I did a sheep
And it didn’t even bleep.
Tomorrow, even though your my pal
I’ll fork your gal.”
Godric acknowledged the applause with a bow.
One wag called out, “Can ye do me wife for me?”
Godric shook his head and said, “Naw, she’s too ugly.”
That got Godric another round of applause as he walked off stage.
“What drivel,” Tristan muttered to Merlin. “Wait ’til these people hear what a real poet can do.”
“I think I see why this is called a forkin’ poetry contest. Be careful up there, Tristan. This crowd can get nasty quickly if you insult them.”
“Bah. This will be easy.”
The master of ceremonies came back on stage. “Next up, we have someone from way down south. He says he’s from Camelot, where ever that is. Please welcome, Tristan.”
Tristan bounded up onto the stage and strode to the center all the time smiling a the crowd. “My name is Sir Tristan and I’m a Knight of the Round Table. I’m happy to be here to share one of my poems with you.”
“Get on wid it!” some yelled.
Tristan glared in the direction of the speaker for a moment before clearing his throat and in a singsong voice said,
“Sunsets are red
Except when they’re not.
I’d like to rest in a bed
Or even a cot.
Roses are yellow —“
“What are ye, a bleedin’ pansy?” someone yelled out.
“Yeah, where’s the forkin’ in the poem?”
“This is a forkin poetry contest ye know.”
“The poems are supposed to be about forkin’, ya twit.”
Others shuffled their feet or shook fists in Tristan’s direction
Merlin bit his lip. He knew what Tristan’s response would be.
A shower of rotten fruit and vegetables flew through the air.
Tristan glared at the crowd and grabbed the hilt of his sword. He pulled it out part way.
“Oh, look. The man got a sword. Are we supposed to be afeared?”
“Let’s grab the sword and stick it up his arse.”
Merlin leaped on to the stage, ran to Tristan and cast a ward to make both of them hard to see.
“Hey, where’d the bleedin’ poet get to?”
“How’d he disappear?”
“It must be mickle magic!”
Merlin pulled an enraged Tristan off the stage and away from the town square while the crowd worked itself into riot mode.
“How dare these peasants insult my wonderful poem.”
“Shut up, Tristan. We have to get out of town. There’ll be a mob out looking for you straightaway. We have to get our stuff out of the room, saddle our horses and ride. So stop your huffing and puffing and come with me.”
Behind them, the crowd began rioting.
~ ~ ~
Outside the walls, Tristan shook his head. “I don’t understand it. That was one of my best poems. Why did the town folks act up like that?”
Merlin decided to go easy on his friend who still didn’t know he was reputed to be Britain’s worst poet. “People are fickle. Up here they expected a different type of poetry reading.”
“You’re right. But maybe someday they’ll be sophisticated enough to understand my work.”
“Le’t us hope you are correct. This is where I turn off to go to my friends house. What do you go now?”
“I’m too distraught to seek the author. Mayhap, I’ll go back to Camelot and write a play to soothe my troubled soul.”
Merlin grimaced. Tristan’s plays were even worse than his poetry.
“It should be ready for the Yuletide feast.”
Merlin almost gasped aloud. A Tristan play would guarantee the Yuletide feast would be anything but a festival. Tristan’s plays would bore everyone to tears. “I changed my mind about visiting my friend. I’ll go back to Camelot with you.” Merin knew he had to warn King Artie forthwith not to let Tristan present his new play at Yuletide.
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