[Bryn-gwlad] Wanted: jongleur

[Sir Lyonel Oliver Grace]

Salut cozyns,

I am in need of a jongleur (un joglar) to bear my cansos, planhs, and 
sirventes across the kingdom. This good gentle must be able to sing with a 
skill and range that can as needed soothe the injured, stoke the fires of 
rage, praise the valiant, lampoon the foolish, or lament the fallen. If the 
jongleur's voice is not able to meet these requirements unaided, he or she 
must be able to play a supporting tune upon lute, rebec, viele, hurdy-gurdy, 
or harp. I prefer that said jongleur be able to write music or at least be 
able to adapt from extant works of trobar.

The jongleur will be welcomed as a member of my household; therefore, said 
jongleur must be of courtly appearance and behavior, must bathe regularly, 
must not become drunk too early of an evening, shall not appear before the 
ladies of my household dressed only in a shirt, and shall maintain a 
pleasant breath. As a member of my household, my jongleur can be certain of 
being well fed and provided with occasional treats. While in my service, 
said jongleur shall receive one silver penny per week, one new shirt each 
year, and ten silver pennies per new song written. Naturally I will also 
provide recompense for any ill treatment you receive for appropriately 
taunting foreign knights with sirventes that I have written.

It is my desire to fill this position in time for Bjornsborg's Legacy of the 
Lions. Interested parties should contact me directly, through my lady, Lucia 
Digioia, or through my squire, Jehanne Martel.

As a sample of the kind of work you will be performing, I here present a 
recent scrap of my work: a brief chanson of four coblas with two tornadas, 
on a tiny tourney fought in Bryn Gwlad in the rain.

The clouds depart and my words must take wing
Abroad to laud a glorious rain-washed night.
Come herald fame and sound with clarion might:
Recall those clouds our evening smothering.
Unswayed our warriors would arm
With blades abate to play not harm.
Soon helms and chain would flash and swords would sing.

Comes next of Clermont, Sir Gaston to spring
Against the threat of rain and lowering light,
To vie against squire Lochlan's doughty fight,
Bold strokes the griffin deft the blade voiding
As blow for blow each does his part,
In this old dance of martial art,
But Lochlan Dunn the final blow would bring.

Lord Barnet then with iron hammer wielding,
Light on his feet and deft, tests Giotto's might,
His heavy spike into the shield would bite,
Aware lest blade past haft shall bear its sting.
Rain's tempo soon would grow more smart,
All eyes we'd watch nor would depart,
As Giotto's brand brave Barnet's helm would ring.

I have no words what next befell to sing.
How Giotto, lordly praised the rain-drenched night.
Ask not poor words to tell that noble rite,
That called the rain and blessings it might bring.
I would that I could find the art,
Largess to grace the noble heart,
And prowess too of words aggrandizing.

Dark skies a voice of rain come threatening,
As shield would fly like stormed-tossed kite
And haloed blades fire-light the night,
With silver sparks from sword strikes glimmering.

Great Lochlan's blows bold Giotto's countering,
As Giotto's parries Lochlan's thwart,
With stalwart blow that stills no heart
Giotto falls to Lochlan's last stout swing.


Meser Lyonel Oliver Grace
_________________________________
Micel yfel deth se unwritere.
		--AElfric of York