Death of a Young King

Eight of the strongest and bravest of warriors were gathered in all Each chosen for their strength, each the same in weight and in tall Their task was not an easy one there to carry home their dead King The priests follow on thereafter with their mourning bells doth ring The King had lead them all into battle, a bloody battle that was lost The burden now was to carry this young loyal King home at all cost A broken grieved young messenger, who rode on his trusted steed That galloped rapidly through glades, never faltering with its speed With it a message he unwanted to give to either courtiers or queen One young King killed; with a lanced spear clean through his spleen When the now arranged strong warriors lifted their King up a height Not one word spoken, as they carried him through the darken night The weight of their young King gilded shield only adding to their toll But to bring their brave young King home, to be now their only goal Over three hundred miles they travelled, through forests, then vales With woven tartan clads wrapped tightly against the thrashing gales Through days as nights, they carried until their kingdom was in sight Heads lowered from their tiredness as thoughts of their lowly plight On entering the royal courtyard all the courtiers’ heads were bowed Folks gather with not one word uttered, to be heard from the crowd Stood at a window now a young widow queen in black she is shroud Then a young boy who on the sight of his dead father cries out aloud The warriors lifted their King upon to the grand hall table he was laid Whilst the courtiers all then lined up and respects to their King made Therein the young King was carried into the privacy of his own room Carefully stripped & cleansed of the blood of his open ripped wound Cloths awash with the blood of this young King of a battle well spent As seen the wound of the gallant young King whose body he had lent To protect that of his people, a realm, his young queen, as young son For after this arduous battle his young life was now for GOD, undone Washed and anointed with scents, maids braided his long golden hair His sword as shield ready and waiting there, leant up against his chair A queen knelt beside her now young deceased King in total utter grief Visions of her fate and that of her son on the death of their tribal chief The castle remained silent within the darkness of the smoke filled night In readiness of a royal King’s funeral to be had in the early morning light Next morning the same warriors who had carried their king home arose And loyally lifted their King with hearts constrained but ready all in pose Out through the court yard passing all heads bowed as across the bridge Carrying a young King up the hill top ‘til they rested on the highest ridge With weary hearts lowering their young King onto the ready funeral pyre His young son of just fourteen held the burning staff so as to light the fire 7 days were spent in mourning until the flames of that fire was duly spent 300 warriors all ready and able, their lives to a new young King to be lent A queen stood as her young son and warriors left through the castle gate Fears avenging his father’s death, would death also become his own fate