May. 28th, 2011 04:29 pm
Getting Medieval
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klwardThe morning mist hung low over the lake and the trees seemed a carding comb, caught with tufts of wool. The dye was madder, staining sky and water both, while heavy dew greyed the turf. Brighter banners, with colours speaking temporal powers hung motionless from tent and stand. But even in these days, there are those who swear their service to the old gods.
In mail and leather he strides, past the bent-backs erecting the fence, the richly-dressed squires pacing the field for the joust. His sword hangs with the ease of his own limbs, the hilt's lion worn down with use. The same insignia is faded upon his breast and scratched and battered on his shield, but he walks proudly, scanning the activity for those also in armour, taking their measure, and finally, settling on an anomaly. Slowly, he approaches the bizarre figure, its furs and leather bespeaking a distant land.
"Hey mate, is that your van? You're parked across the gate and I can't get the horse float in!"
"Sorry," replies the Viking, "Just had to unload the cauldron."
Two men in full plate going at each other with great swords also has a substantial "wow" factor. Set aside the blood, sweat and pecs for a moment - I think that on some primal level, everyone just likes weapons. In so many different circumstances, from school shows to films, and even in those old LARP games, I have seen that same glint in the eyes of men, women and children. A glint of sheer delight at the prospect of picking up a piece of wood or metal, and hitting something. At the fair, you could watch people doing it well, and then go down the back with some latex pieces from Medieval Fight Club and belabour each other to your heart's content. The observant might also learn something about tying nooses, viking weaving, and just how quickly a person in a gambeson can dehydrate.
In mail and leather he strides, past the bent-backs erecting the fence, the richly-dressed squires pacing the field for the joust. His sword hangs with the ease of his own limbs, the hilt's lion worn down with use. The same insignia is faded upon his breast and scratched and battered on his shield, but he walks proudly, scanning the activity for those also in armour, taking their measure, and finally, settling on an anomaly. Slowly, he approaches the bizarre figure, its furs and leather bespeaking a distant land.
"Hey mate, is that your van? You're parked across the gate and I can't get the horse float in!"
"Sorry," replies the Viking, "Just had to unload the cauldron."
"You jousting then?" enquires a passing Roman legionary.
"Na, I'm running the pony rides!"
The one history you will not find re-enacted in Australia is the continent's own. As a veteran of the Mary Bryant mini-series, I assure you there is little metal, no glamour and a long-running argument about taste. But the Blacktown Medieval Fair (21-22 May), featured all of the above, plus a 16th century pike and musket brigade, a stage-fighting group who performed in corsets, blacksmiths, woodturners, gladiators, jugglers, musicians, fortunetellers, the staff of Blacktown library, camels, trolls, a solitary Spartan, more pewter jewellery than I thought existed in this hemisphere, the kind of fairy-floss I thought had been banned long ago and the Black Grail, who were described as "a light-hearted torture and executions show for the kiddies". Which turned out to be quite accurate. Of course, by that time the crowd had adjusted to the idea of people endangering life and limb for their entertainment. I spent the majority of my time on duty at the Black Ravens campsite explaining how the Scold's Bridle and Shrew's Fiddle worked to increasingly enthusiastic parents.
I wasn't fighting. I'm woefully out of condition and was never in the class of such seasoned warriors as Hugh, Elden and Roxanne. All the Sydney groups were there: the Black Ravens and the Company of the Staple, the New Varangian Guard, Danelaw, Uppsala and the Company of Knights Bachelor had come down from Queensland. One of the jousters fighting under the aegis of Australian company Full Tilt was out from the USA. You could tell from the small American flag attached to his helm in the place of a neck cloth, and his use of the word "hottie".
I have never before witnessed live jousting and it was a revelation. Gorgeous beyond words, even such words as "crimson", "golden", "silken" and "chestnut". No cinematic depiction conveys the incredible fluidity of the action, the swiftness of the horses, the coordination required to bring the tip of the lance and target together while pounding down the list. The skill involved in managing the conflicting momentum of horses and metal is breathtaking, and nearly invisible. You have to know something, I propose, about armour, before you start to appreciate the dexterity with which the riders both keep and lose their seats. Because fall they did, in armour and out. It is an incredible spectacle and offers something for everyone: the magnificent costumes of knight and mount, the ritual parade and distribution of favours (an adjustment of tradition - the knights present ribbons in their colours to those they will champion), the flashing blades of the tests of skill, and then the thundering, crashing impact of the joust with shrapnel flying - they aim for the opponent's shoulder plate and they do hit! I am amazed that as a sport it is not more widely followed. The winner of Saturday's heat was Lady Sarah of Newcastle who courteously presented her favour to a man. The guy from the US hooked up with the Ravens and took out his frustrations on Hugh with a great sword.
Two men in full plate going at each other with great swords also has a substantial "wow" factor. Set aside the blood, sweat and pecs for a moment - I think that on some primal level, everyone just likes weapons. In so many different circumstances, from school shows to films, and even in those old LARP games, I have seen that same glint in the eyes of men, women and children. A glint of sheer delight at the prospect of picking up a piece of wood or metal, and hitting something. At the fair, you could watch people doing it well, and then go down the back with some latex pieces from Medieval Fight Club and belabour each other to your heart's content. The observant might also learn something about tying nooses, viking weaving, and just how quickly a person in a gambeson can dehydrate.
It was hot. It was really, really hot. Medievalist events, including the fair, are held specifically in Autumn - Winter so the participants can frock up without risking heat exhaustion. In previous years, the event has been washed out. This time, the running rivulets were all sweat. After each bout, every free hand was called in to get the combatants out of their armour as quickly as possible, while tipping goblets of water in through visors. The people lying motionless on the ground weren't dead, but they were seriously fatigued.
The site, a mere corner of the Nurragingy Reserve, was beautiful and the tents and banners both period and not-so-much made a delightful display. But two things struck me as jarring: the food stalls were all non-period. This is more a reflection on my search for a nice, plain roast and vegetables than a dislike of anachronism: let the people have their gelato and butter chicken by all means. But one of the things I appreciate about re-enactment events is that I can generally eat there; besides which, chips present the medievalist with a moral dilemma. Then there was the fact that the soundtrack, piped through the PA across the entire fair ground, consisted of Monty Python, Cold Chisel, popular classics (such as the William Tell overture) and two Queen songs: We Will Rock You and The Seven Seas of Rye. Which again, I don't object to in themselves, but there is plenty of medieval stuff about.
A case can be made that any one person's idea of the Middle Ages (or the Dark Ages, or the Roman Empire - the scene being so small in Australia, we are all perforce chummy) is as good as anyone else's. This view acknowledges that the man who reads Hoffstader and spends thousands of dollars and a full year having his new armour fitted, piece by piece, to his body has as little genuine access to the period as the kid running around with a piece of sculptured dowel screaming "This is Sparta!" The psychic and physical realities of a modern are vastly different to those of a medieval and no amount of mimicry can change this. But such a view restricts the faculty of fantasy to the immaterial and, by inference, impractical. The utility of the blacksmith or woodworker's craft is in no way diminished by the existence of Alco and Ikea. Likewise, the benefit a modern can derive from reading fencing manuals and practising swordplay is real. And if we do take 300 as a working model of the past, we are all in trouble.
All in all, this was a fine event that provided the public with easy access to the oft-sequestered world of historical re-enactment, and gave re-enactors access to an appreciative, to say bloodthirsty audience. To remind people that there was a past and people did things differently there is to my mind a worthy activity, best accompanied by a lute and spitted deer.
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