The Pretender
The deafening din of the battle ceased;
Vict’ry shout and death cries of man and beast.
Like colored confetti the knights there lay,
Littering the ground in their grim display.
Once proud banners broken, ragged, and torn
Were scattered about like mowed stalks of corn.
The sinking sun glinted off burnished helms,
Death taking captives to the nether realms.
Silver gilt mail, broken sword, shattered lance
Lay strewn about far into the distance.
Red blood congealed in stinking crimson pools,
Covering the deathly and barren brules.
War horses, strong archers, and fierce pikemen
In death still lay engaged with their foemen.
War is the darkness of the human heart.
Violence of the soul it does impart.
The proof was the many corpses about;
Those forced to fight, the inane and devout.
From under a pile of bodies so grim
Emerged a dark figure on shaky limb.
Dark was his armor, blood splashed, and dented.
The force of axe on his helm had vented.
He staggered, almost fell, but kept his feet.
Seeing, he could, his army had been beat.
Desolation lay all around the land.
It was an ambush the enemy planned.
His valiant men had charged the ambuscade!
Oh what glory the sight of them had made!
But now everything had been for naught.
He quested for the throne as thought he ought.
A wicked, unpopular man was he.
The knights who served did only for a fee.
Now he would need a new army in haste
If not this opportunity to waste.
He needed refuge and saw a small light!
Hope filled his heart in the midst of his plight.
He stumbled over the dead to the light.
It was a small cabin so quaint and tight.
He hailed the house in a voice of command.
“I need shelter. Food and drink I demand!”
A mist swirled about the little brown shack.
At his command the door opened a crack.
As he waited most impatiently there
From inside came terrified sounds of care.
An old woman in rags opened the door.
It took a mere glance to see she was poor.
“Come in my King and have something to eat.
I watched as your men went down in defeat.
Bread and beer are all I can offer you,
And a place to sleep, you can have that too.”
The Pretender entered the house and sat
While shoving away the woman’s black cat.
She set before him beer and bread to eat
And fixed him a pallet by the fire neat.
“Tonight you will be warm by the small fire
And leave in the morn if that be desire.”
As she turned away she shaved a small wood
And piled up the shavings for kindling good.
There was a weirdness all about the place
And soon he felt sleepy in the warm space.
As he slept and dreamt of battle glory
The crone crept close, her goal something gory.
She placed the sharpened stick on his temple.
Her aged hands did not even tremble.
She hammered the stick through his ugly head,
And beat until she was sure he was dead.
Morning brought a polite hail to the house.
“Ma’am, have you seen the Pretender, that louse?”
“Yes, he lies within my cottage dead.
Now innocents will him no longer dread.
No more boys sent off to an unjust war
Just to satisfy his craving for more.
Our good and godly king can reign in peace
And the wealth of his people can increase.”
“Good woman, I your king will recompense
And lift you out of this poverty hence.
This for the favour you have done for me
And so that all people here can be free.”
Thus ended the pretender to the throne.
He was killed in his sleep by an old crone.
by Lanier Thomas
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