Poem: "Sir Rosalind Rides"
Sir Rosalind Rides
Long, long ago in the lands of the west
Lived there a lady-knight hailed as the best.
Many a battlefield drank from her sword,
Spilling the enemy’s blood for her lord.
On rolled the years, and her lightning stroke slowed.
Gladly and sadly, she left her old road
For a fine fortress beneath her lord’s rule
Where she soon founded a warriors’ school.
I am known as Sir Rosalind, long live my name
For the foe fell before me like grass before flame.
Now I’ve taken up teaching, before my sand runs
So come send me your daughters and send me your sons.
Lords and rich merchants were charmed by her call,
Sending their secondborn sons, one and all.
Daughters they also sent on, just a few,
Wayward and headstrong - and good students, too.
Many fine knights she brought up in her day,
Training them all in the warriors’ way.
Honor and diligence, courage and might:
Those who learned well would prevail in a fight.
Stop the whining! Start running - get that through your head.
What, you’re tired? Well, you can sleep deep when you’re dead.
I am Armsmistress Rosalind. There’s no free pass.
Now pick up your lost sword and get off of your ass!
Some of the gentleborn don’t like such talk,
Praised, primped, and pampered before they could walk.
Home on a holiday, how they complained,
Thankless (and clueless) for how they’d been trained.
“These are our children,” appalled parents said.
“How can you scold them with such bitter dread?
Lower your standards, my lady, you must -
We know much better than you do, we trust.”
Day and night they came to me and pounded my door,
Saying I couldn’t teach like I’d taught anymore.
Well then, damn them all soundly and send them their doom -
They said lower my standards. I lowered the boom.
Onward she drove them, with sword-flat and quirt;
Even the best did their time in the dirt.
Valiant students earned their belts and spurs;
No other knights could stand fast before hers.
“Listen, my lady, it’s two of the clock.
I know that you’ve got a head like a rock.
Take the gold - show some sense!” said the old man.
“Honor’s no use if it earns you a ban.”
There were nights when I questioned my choices, it’s true.
Only fools never think twice; wise knights often do.
But what good is mere gold and a seal on a scroll,
If forswearing your honor means losing your soul?
Early that winter the school was shut down;
Stoic, Sir Rosalind moved into town.
Even her own liege had broken his word,
Speaking against her (or so she had heard).
Far away, knights she had trained still prevailed.
Meanwhile, some local businesses failed:
Markets, it seems, are no kinder than she
And those who would hear only praise … well, they’ll see.
I was known as Sir Rosalind, Armsmistress rare,
And I never gave in, not for gold, nor a glare.
They have taken my school, but they haven’t won yet.
Those who owe me their freedom … how fast they forget.
Six against one, they attacked her that night,
Blades from behind, on a street with no light.
That’s what it took to let out her life’s blood -
Still she brought all of them down in the mud.
Knights she had taught, when they heard she was slain,
Swore to avenge her and launched a campaign
To rebuild all she had wrought in her life,
Raising her school from the ashes of strife.
On a steed made of moonlight, Sir Rosalind rides
With a saddle tanned out of the oathbreakers’ hides,
In defense of the principles she loved the most -
Mortal woman no longer, a cold vengeful ghost.