BALLAD Poem: The Ballad of the King’s Historian, by Erica Berquist

Sit down my friend, and let me tell
a tale of times of strife,
of days so dark, when war, disease
and hunger were so rife.

And so begin all great eddas,
sagas, epics, and songs.
Although I must admit, it is
histories that I long.

Oh please, give me a tale of kings,
so wise, kindly, and bold,
who once actually lived and walked
the Earth in times of old.

For long I studied the works of great
sage scholars, but in time
soon found to read was not enough.
I needed to pen mine.

Where does one go to witness it?
To stand in attendance
at the first breath of history?
I met a king by chance.

Impressing him with wit and way
with words, I earned a job
as Royal scribe, recording the King’s
victories with aplomb.

I had attained my heart’s desire,
and yet I needed more.
There’s a tragedy being royal
scribe when there is no war.

Historians live looking back,
and I could see the past
in the shelves of the library.
Words scribed in peace don’t last.

To make my book endure was work,
such vile scheming I
scarce not speak of it, yet I must.
Of treachery and lie.

The king’s fiancée was a maid
of fine birth and feature
and I plotted her sad demise.
Oh, loathsome sick creature.

I spread gossip, rumors, tall tales,
oh wretched man I am,
to stain her honor and name,
the maid suffered the scam.

And all the while, I scribed the story,
just waiting for the war
as two kingdoms scuffled and raged
to settle the king’s score.

A wound to honor can only
be salved with blood, they say.
And so I counted on as I
sat waiting for the fray.

However, I did not foresee
the parley which brought peace,
when the two unexpectedly
spoke so conflict would cease.

It was good news for the king and
his bride, but not for me,
as word of the rumors led back
to he who told it, see.

Which would be me. I knelt before
my king and begged pardon
but found none. The king condemned me
for I lost his ardor.

As penance, King bade me travel
the country to share my
tale, allowing me to beg coins
if my foolish woes vie
sympathy from any who listen.
I’ll admit myself to
be a flawed man. I’ll even fall
as I degrade into
a beggar, but foolishness is
not something I’ll admit,
despite the King’s decree, for I
write my own small acquit.

Do remember this scholar, for
while there’s ink in the pen
then my sad history has not
yet come to my tale’s end