Russian-Style Fighter Poems by Liudmila Vladimirova doch'
Commemorating Fighters and Consorts in the Crown Tourneys of Caid

Baron Rowan Killian

From afar, from beyond the sea,
From a fair land of Gyldenholt,
From a noble kingdom of Caid,
Not a lion there comes prowling,
Not an eagle there comes pouncing,
Not a griffin comes, a warrior strides,
Comes the noble Baron Rowen Killian.
From afar he comes to the tourney field,
On a glory day when a sword decides,
When a sword decides and a shield supports
Who would be a king, who would raise his queen.
So the Baron enters and he brings his love,
Fair bright Ceridwen, one to praise in song
For her swan-like stride,
For her stride and bright mind,
Face white as snow is white,
Ruby cheeks as poppy blossoms.
Bright falcon eyes, gleaming gold of hair,
Fair Ceridwen, worth a kingdom she is.
On a challenge field gather warriors,
Gather warriors for a fair fight
When a prince will rise in his regal strength
To become a king of beloved land.
“Hear you, noble warrior,
Strong armed Rowen Killian,
Why you came today to this tourney field,
To this fighting field on a tourney day?
Did you come to die, for your head to roll,
Or to win and rule, sit the crescent throne?
These are counts, dukes, these are gallant knights,
Who are you, Baron, to be in this fight?”
Answer that he does,
Boldly he sets forth,
And so says the brave Rowen Killian:
“As I dream the dream so I come to fight,
Come to fight this day on a tourney field
And to lay my head if my might will fail
Or to rule the day for my fair love,
Gentle love of mine who would be my Queen,
Ceridwen of the house Killian.”
So he said that morn as he set his helm,
As he raised his sword for a noble fight.
Mighty blows fell, ground trembled, shook,
And was felled in fight Rowen Killian
On a glory day when a sword decides,
When a sword decides and a shield supports
Who would be a king, who would raise his queen.
Thus the tale is told, thus the song is sang,
For the noble baron, Rowen Killian.

Ceridwen’s Lament
Based on the Lay of Igor’s Campaign

Over the river Ceridwen’s voice,
Like lone cuckoo cries she,
“I shall fly,” she says,
“To the river as a bird,”
“I shall wet my sleeves ,
“I shall wash the wounds
“On the mighty body of beloved mine.”

 So she cries on the early morn,
On the tourney field she cries:
“Oh, you stormy wind,
Why blow so strong,
Why push my lord ,
Why aid his foes?
Is it not enough for you
To command the skies,
And to rule the seas,
Must you hurt my love?”

 Ceridwen through the morning cries,
On the tourney field she laments:
“Oh you bright, even thrice-bright sun,
Kind and warm you are to everyone,
Why must you send hot and cruel rays
On this tourney field, on my love at fight?”

Thus she weeps on the tourney day,
Early cries Ceridwen, like a bird laments.
As the morning wanes,
Rowen Killian falls,
Rowen Killian rises up,
Rowen Killian thinks ahead,
From this day to the ones to come,
Not to dwell on falls, but to dream the dream,
As a griffin bold, he will fly to fight.

Lorccan at the Crown Tourney
A song in the Russian style

Morning dew dries fast upon tourney field,
Gather warriors, try their lustrous swords,
Their lustrous swords, their hardened shields, --
They will try and see who shall be the one.
Sun comes bright and high upon tourney field,
Gather warriors for a fair fight,
For a fair fight, for an honest clash,
One that will reveal who it is to rule.
Wind arrives to blow dust upon the field,
Comes Lorccan to battle for the crown bright,
For the crown bright, for his honor high,
So he comes to make fair Ciar a queen.
Clouds flee from sight over tourney field,
Comes Lorccan to see if he might just win,
If he might just win, if he will be king,
And his love a queen of the great Caid.
Hope rises high upon tourney field,
Lorccan crosses swords with a mighty knight,
With a mighty knight, Drogo of the wolf.
Battle flares and wanes, as young Lorccan falls.
Dreams shatter and rise upon tourney field,
Lorccan crosses swords for his second chance,
For his second chance, for the glory bright
Under Malachi’s knightly blows he falls.
Love remains aglow upon tourney field,
Lorccan and Ciar reunite at last.
Reunite at last, they who both fought long,
Fought to raise each other to the royal thrones.
Promise fills the void upon empty field,
Lorccan and Ciar know day will come,
Know day will come, hope they will win
Dream that is for them Crown of Caid.

The Lay of Sir Rhys's Quest

Based on the Lay of Igor’s Campaign

Would you let me tell this tale to you?
Tell this tale in the way of old,
Noble tale of the brave Sir Rhys,
Brave Sir Rhys, gallant Ravenscroft…
Not by fancy I will guide this tale,
As the tales of the ancient bards,
But by truth of the recent past
I will try to begin this day.
Those bards, when they sang a song,
Spread themselves as the river wide,
Run afield as the gray wild wolves,
Took to flight like the falcons bright.
I will have to begin afresh,
From a day when Syr Rhys looked up,
Looked upon all of royal lands,
All of rolling hills and all crushing waves,
And desired to be more than just a knight,
And dreamed up to make fair Jimena Queen.
So he had a desire in his mind,
A burning dream shining ahead.
“I wish,” he said, “to cross my swords,
In the Crown Tourney with our very best,
And I wish to fall on a tourney field,
If I won’t win the kingdom for Jimena mine.”
Oh, oh how would those bards of old,
Those nightingales sing of Rhys’s quest?
Their words flew high into the clouds white,
Swiftly ran the trails of the legends of old.
Oh, I would wish them sing the tale of Rhys,
Bold Syr Rhys who fought for a crown’s gold.
Armor shining bright, he went into the filed,
There to meet Cormac, then to fight with Bjorn.
Brightly his own sword met with their arms,
Mighty Rhys thus won, and Jimena smiled.
Easy goes a song, not so easy - a fight,
Now tired, Sir Rhys went to clash anew,
Went and yielded soon to Sir Gamil’s blade.
Spoke then Sir Rhys, “All is not yet lost,
I will go forth to fulfill my quest,
For my land, Caid, for Jimena’s eyes,
I will charge the field as a stallion strong.”
If the ancient bards sand the tale of Rhys,
They would sing him praise as a songbird sings,
And they would reach high as an eagle flies,
Praise him to the skies for his noble quest.
Ventured forth Syr Rhys, and upon the field
There stood a man who would be the king.
Once and future king, Edric, regal Duke.
Was it foretold for Sir Rhys to fall?
Was it meant to be that Edric reigned anew?
Oh, if olden bard sang this song, they’d say,
But I can only grieve for Sir Rhys’s quest.
As he fell that day on the tourney field,
I will praise the king for his royal might,
But I’ll praise Sir Rhys for his brave attempt,
And for his bright hope of another time.