This is a short story including issues that may upset some readers, such as death and grief. It is set between the Golden Age of Narnia and the Telmarine age. It centres about a battle with a great Wyrm that threatens the western border.
.
.
The Tragicall Historie of Swanwhite II
.
.
Foreword
.
Sadly, most academics treat Narnian history with the same contempt they save for Atlantis or Robin Hood. This explains why the British Library keeps so quiet about its Narnian archive and has failed to catalogue it properly. Clive Staples Lewis 'got away' with it because fact was mistaken for fiction. Narnia remains a fringe interest and it does tend to attract theorists who read all sorts of nonsense into it. It's currently impossible to study the Narnian world seriously in an academic setting; it remains a field wholly open to enthusiasts such as me.
I should have known that Narnia was real because I first learned of it when I was just eleven years of age. I even caught a glimpse of 'Aslan's Country' at that time. Sadly, like Queen Susan, I lost faith and my belief waned. Only now, in middle-age, have I rediscovered both places.
The following events were pieced together from two sources; documents all in private ownership. I am fortunate to have access to the significant archive that remains in Priors Bollerton (East Yorkshire). The collector has been corresponding with a contact in the USA and has obtained copies of the 'Minneapolis fragments'. Admittedly nobody other than the owner has had the opportunity to example the documents. Given the content, however, I believe them to be genuine. As I have no academic reputation to be lost, I can publish my version of events without fear. I don't care if I am labelled a 'crank', although that is for you to decide.
.
.
The Ballad of Swanwhite
c.1502 – extant verses - author unknown
.
A partial reconstruction of a Narnian song or poem, from two sources including the Minneapolis fragments.
"Like snow crowned Stormness,
Or the Rush set hard and sparkling,
Your locks are pale as the falling jewels of winter,
Azure as the summer sea,
Or the most cloudless of skies,
Like perfectly formed sapphires are your eyes,
They enchant to enslave,
Lips the most dangerous of bows,
You send forth darts to pierce every heart,
Sweet as Archenland apples,
Red as the bloodiest berry of the holly,
Neither pool nor glass can bear to lose thy image,
And thus forsake their office thereafter…
I suspect that this last, fragmentary verse is the source of a later legend recounted by Mr Lewis in 'The Last Battle'.
.
.
A fancy to go a-riding
Year 1494 – Narnian reckoning
.
"In the days of Good King Frank (1), when the benison of Aslan lay upon Narnia like a protective shield, there lived a man. A strong, noble warrior was he. His bow was of the strongest willow, his sword was sharp as…" there the bard was rudely interrupted.
"Yes, I'm sure they were," said the Princess. "I expect his hair was like spun gold too and his jaw as broad as that of an ox. Doubtless the sun shined out of his armour." She felt a bit ashamed at her pettishness and went on, "Pardon me, Master Baldwin, I'm somewhat tired. If you'll excuse me, I'll retire. Pray accept my hospitality and I promise to be attentive to your tale tomorrow night." Princess Swanwhite left the great hall, escorted by her principal lady-in-waiting and the Serjeant-at-arms. "I have the crotchets tonight," she admitted to her old friend.
That old campaigner shifted the ceremonial mace from one arm to the other. "That's halright, ma'am. It 'appens to hall of us". Now you may have noticed a verbal curiosity here. In his desire to 'speak properly' the Serjeant was prone to add an 'h' where it wasn't needed yet drop them elsewhere.
"I need to get out of CP for a while," she mused (by which she meant the great castle, Cair Paravel). "Tell Gembling to have the small mare ready for seven…no, make that eight. I'll want breakfast".
"Hany hescort ma'am?" asked the Serjeant with a liberal slathering of H's.
"Just you, Gembling and a trooper," she decided.
It was one of those days most familiar to the British, when one experiences all four seasons in a few hours. It began brightly enough but very frosty, even though it was nearly mid-spring. "Look smart my lad," said Serjeant Foston briskly. "Tighten that belt and straighten your chin strap. Where do you think you are – a Dame School (2)? This is the Royal Guard!" Please don't think that Foston was a bully: his bark was definitely worse than his bite. He was actually a kindly man but well able to conceal it under bluster. Trooper Watton hid a smile and did as he was bid. In his pocket were three small coins that the Serjeant had advanced him before payday. He knew what sort of man Foston really was.
"Nice day for it," the would-be martinet observed.
The groom looked at the clear sky. "It'll rain later," he said glumly.
"You're a gloomy fellow, by Peregrines precious pig (3)," Foston declared. "Hup…'tention," he called, with a snap of his heels. The wicket gate by the stables opened.
"Good morning, Serjeant," said Princess Swanwhite. "This is Trooper Watton, isn't it?" She cast a glowing smile at the guard, who very nearly swooned.
"Yes, your Highness," he agreed.
"Not much to look at," said the Serjeant critically, "but I reckon hi can make something hof him". Being very petite, the Princess was obliged to use a mounting block. Soon she had her size two feet in the stirrups and they were away.
.
.
In the greenwood
.
Peredur put down a feed bowl to better examine the damaged caging of his hen house. The staves were pulled and scratched, the wires bent. Impertinent sparrows bounced merrily in the trees and flapped about. They gave him cheek and chaff over his concern for the pampered chickens. "If you were any use you'd talk properly, you little twerps," he threw back at them.
The young man, an excellent tracker, followed the trail some yards until he came to some small, round fewmets (4). We must forgive him for picking one up, examining it and cautiously raising it to his nostril. "A dragon," he muttered. "Alright ladies," he shouted, turning back to his hens. "I'll feed you first then I'll sort this out."
Half an hour later, Peredur was slowly making his way through the wood. The drizzle was strong enough to penetrate the overhead canopy. A powerfully built fellow, born and bred in the greenwood, he barely noticed the damp. In his hand he carried an axe, over his shoulder a sack and a length of cord.
A woman's voice drifted through the trees, many yards away. "Whooah, easy, easy," she cried as her horse continued to bolt. "Aster, Aster; easy!" Peredur ran to assist but soon the rider seemed to have finally gotten control. "There, easy. Good girl." The rustling stopped and the woodsman came upon the source. He found a finely dressed young woman, now dismounted. "You rotten brute," she scolded her mare. "For two pins I'd have you casseroled."
"Crosspatch (5)," laughed Peredur, leaning unobserved against a tree.
Swanwhite was startled to find herself being watched by a muscular young rustic who had the temerity to laugh at her. To be fair, nobody wants to be called a crosspatch by a complete stranger. How much greater the offence when the victim is a princess? "I beg your pardon!" she said icily.
"Ah you're welcome, lady," replied Peredur disingenuously. "Bolted did she?"
Swanwhite studied him. He was rather unlovely: with his drooping eyelids, a beak of a nose and a large, loose mouth. "She did bolt," she admitted. "I wouldn't really casserole her," she felt compelled to add.
"You'll be from the castle then?"
"Yes."
"Thee can find thy way back alright?" he enquired.
"Perfectly well, thank you," she said firmly. She looked at the sack and axe. "Cutting some firewood are you?"
"Nay; I'm dragon hunting."
.
.
Peredur, dragon-hunter
.
"Hush now, lady," Peredur said softly, pointing to the rocks.
"There, you think?" Swanwhite whispered.
The man nodded, "Seems likely." Small pellets made a fairly obvious path to the trained eye. He carefully made a loop of cord and took a pair of leather gauntlets out of his sack. "Let's have a look-see," he said. He made his way quietly to the pile of rocks, gently placing one foot in front of the other, making no discernible noise. Pausing as he reached it, he studied the stones for a few moments, lightly placing the cord on the grass. He bent slowly, halted again, and then swiftly thrust his hand into a gap between the rubble. He rummaged about inside and tugged out his 'catch' triumphantly. A lizard, no more than eighteen inches long, writhed in his grasp. "One dragon, an adult male," Peredur declared.
Swanwhite ran over to take a look. "Why, it's quite sweet," she said surprised. With strong fingers locked about its throat, the lizard could do no more than bare its wicked little teeth at her and flare its nostrils. "So, this is a petty-draca, you say?"
"Aye, lady. See the way its nostrils are bulging? They can't blow out fire but they'd like to. I've heard tell of one that could produce smoke but I don't reckon on it," (by which he meant that he disbelieved the tale).
"I wonder why it can't fly? After all, it has wings."
"They aren't real wings. They're just purposeless flaps," Peredur explained.
"How odd," Swanwhite replied. Now, the origin of the petty-draca is uncertain but I incline to the theory that they were bred by the White Witch. After all, even a powerful witch can 'come a cropper' when confronted with a full grown dragon. Trying to breed a new strain, from scratch, would be difficult but much safer. Certainly, the Dwarfs of the northern wastes had encountered them in the centuries since the Witch's reign.
Once the lizard was muzzled and safely stowed in the sack, the Princess asked what Peredur would do with it. "This is the third I've caught," he explained. "I take them somewhere lonely, well away from each other so they can't breed. Find them a hole and some bright, shiny metal to sit on and they're as happy as a pig in muck".
"Well, thank you so much. It's been an education," said Swanwhite brightly, intending to leave.
"Ah, by that you mean that thou hast had enough," Peredur observed (pronouncing thou as thoo).
"Not at all," the Princess replied, stung. "I thought perhaps you'd have things to be getting on with, that's all".
"I'm my own master," he answered, hoisting up the wriggling sack. "If you want a bit o' dinner, lady, ye are welcome." He glanced up at the sky. "I reckon there's sleet in them clouds".
"Well, I ought to get back to CP, they'll be looking for me," the Princess said reluctantly. "What's for lunch, Peredur?"
.
.
Bigger fish to fry
Year 1526 Narnian Reckoning
.
Queen Swanwhite paced up and down the great hall, two ladies-in-waiting and one bodyguard following in her wake like ducklings. "Oh, shoo," she scolded them. "Sit down."
"That's good advice, ma'am," said her chief adviser, pointedly.
"Meaning I should take it," the queen replied, sharply.
"One should always take one's own advice…"
Swanwhite laughed, "You should have met my late brother - he was a blithering idiot – his advice wasn't worth a hen's egg." Nevertheless, she flopped down on her throne. Aged 49, the queen was still a very handsome woman, if a little more comfortably built than she'd been as a girl. Her grateful entourage sat down too. Almost immediately a door to the great hall opened and a messenger entered, escorted by the Usher. On his knee in front of the queen, the courier delivered his letter. "It's from the Gonaflon (6)," said the Queen, reading the missive. She appeared composed enough but had gone deathly white. "There are casualties….I want my mare saddled, now, if you please."
Trouble had arrived with the cuckoos of spring. The first report was from a distant hamlet on the western border. The few families that lived there were all loyal Narnians but flaxen hair and harsh accents told of their descent from the lost folk of the western wilds (7). It was a time of peace and the villagers felt no need for a night watch. How wrong they were! Goat cries broke into dreams and opened the eyes of the sleepers. "What's that?" said the Headman, Aethelstan, sitting bolt upright in bed.
Ethelflaed, his wife, was already on her feet. She began rummaging about under the bed for the long knife that served her as a sword. "Wolves or brigands?' she suggested.
"Who knows?" her husband replied, shrugging on his coat then taking a spear from the wall.
A dozen men, women and teenagers emerged into a night lit only by two lanterns. "Somethings been at the goats," a woman said. Indeed, much of the fencing was broken down and what was left of the stock was unpleasant to look at.
"My goat!" a distressed young girl cried out to her father.
"Get back inside, Frida, now!" he ordered. "This is no sight for children".
"Can you see tracks?" Aethelstan called to his cousin.
"See them," Edgar exclaimed, "I can't miss them!" He held his lantern out to examine the flattened grass further. "It must be bigger than a bull, but I tell you something…"
"What?"
"It crawls on its belly".
The first sighting of the Western Wyrm was six weeks later. The Beast Warden wanted to investigate but had been overruled. It was pointed out to him that dragons are a matter for knights: several of whom were kicking their heels about the court. During times of peace and stability, knights are woefully under-employed. One can only take part in so many tournaments, after all.
The heir to the throne was Prince Ambrose, a man of thirty three years. He favoured his mother, having a rather delicate beauty that he found slightly embarrassing. His fragile appearance belied his considerable bravery and his prodigious ability at arms. He rode west accompanied by his squire and six troopers. Enquiries at the hamlet encouraged him to plunge into the tangle of woodland further west still. It was a further day before the party came across signs of the beast. "Highness," shouted the two guards up front. "Droppings!"
Dismounting, Ambrose went to examine the fewmets. He gagged a little and backed off. "Phew! What a stench. They're like those of a petty-draca but they're the size of footballs."
"You've seen them before, Highness?" asked the Serjeant.
"You don't have a parent like mine, Sarge, without learning your natural history," the Prince laughed.
They were a further mile into the wood when they ran into trouble. One moment all was well but then the beast was upon them. It struck suddenly like the April rain. The first thing that hit their senses was the stench of ammonia: more like a thousand hungry maggots than a lizard. Then they saw the great body hurtling towards them. It had three distinct, articulated body sections. Despite having no discernible legs it still managed to launch itself with wing-like flaps of skin. Three thousand pounds in weight catapulted into them. Two troopers died instantly, crushed beneath its body. The wyrms flesh was curiously dry despite its slimy appearance: not that its victims had time to consider the matter.
The fight was short and bloody. The creature took numerous blows but nothing seemed to stop its onslaught. Its yellow teeth, hard as diamonds, tore more viciously than the swords and spears of the soldiers. Finally, the wounded Prince and his squire were forced to flee for their lives. Every man-at-arms had been killed. Ambrose took a blow to his shoulder that would never quite heal. On a cold winter day it would ache as bitterly as if that monstrous frame had struck it anew.
.
.
A husband's farewell
.
The pavilion was busy. The Royal Surgeon kept trying to make his patient comfortable but he was clearly at his wits' end. Four menservants trooped back and forth with bowls of hot water - bowls of cold water - dry towels - wet towels - and all to no avail. The Gonaflon showed the Queen into the tent and stood by the entrance, ready if needed.
King Francis was propped up by two pillows. His skin was the colour of old parchment. The hair that had retained some brown now seemed entirely grey. He had aged thirty years over night. The King's eyes, whilst still alert, were watery and red raw. "Svana (8), my dear…" he gasped. The punctured bellows of his lungs wheezed.
Swanwhite dropped to her knees by the side of his bed and took his hand. "What a state to get yourself in," she tried to joke bravely. "You'll expect to laze in a litter all the way back to CP I suppose!"
Francis squeezed her hand with what little strength he had left. "It's too late, my dear".
Swanwhite dropped a kiss on her husband's forehead. "Don't be silly; we'll get you patched up."
The king managed a weak smile. "We didn't do so badly, did we?"
"Hush now," his queen bid him. She was trying not to cry. "No we haven't done badly so far," she replied, stroking his hand and refusing to use the past tense.
Francis, consort to the queen, died thirty minutes later and the mood of the camp changed from foreboding to grief. Swanwhite emerged from the tent, numb. "It's a great loss, ma'am," said the Gonaflon, clearly upset.
"He was a good man," said the queen "we will all miss him". She paused and then asked, "There must be others hurt and dead. Who are they?"
The officer answered, "We lost ten troopers, all good men-at-arms, Sir Greville and Tomkin the Keeper. There's another half dozen badly wounded and dying"
Swanwhite nodded and looked at the groups of people, stood about, mourning. "I will see the seriously injured," she declared.
.
.
A grief too hard to bear
.
The hospital tent was busy but the attendants drifted away to give the Queen chance to speak to the sick. At the last makeshift bed, Swanwhite stopped and gazed, unable to speak. The occupant swathed in bandages was a man in his fifties, who lay on top. An ominous rusty red-brown patch seeped through the bindings and spread across his chest. The queen dropped to her knees once more and took another dying man's hand. The Beast Warden, who lay in the bed, didn't seem to be aware of her at first. Finally, his eyelids flickered open and his pupils went wide. "You came, lady," he said hoarsely.
"Oh Peredur, what has it done to you?" she whispered. A crystal tear ran down her pale cheek.
"We beat it," he said with a twisted smile. "The greatest petty-draca I ever saw. It was…magnificent."
"I'll get the best doctors for you," she said decisively, squeezing his hand.
"It's too late, lady," he said, clutching her small hand in return. "There's a gaping maw (9) where m' chest should be".
"I can't go on without you," she said lightly as if in banter (although there is many a true word said in jest). "You'll just have to make an effort and get better".
"We agreed – when we were but young - that you have to go on without me".
She reached out a hand to timidly touch his face as if it were made of fragile glass. "You know how much I regret that," she whispered.
"We did what we had to do for Narnia," Peredur told her. "It was hard but it was right."
Swanwhite gave him a smile that seemed as likely to dissolve as a snowflake in summer. "You'd never have been happy in CP."
"Thou weren't made for life in a hut, my love".
"I was made for you," the queen said, her head hung low.
.
.
The tragedy of Swanwhite
.
Now, Victorian literary heroines had a timely ability to pine away and die. An incredibly convenient death is such a well-used motif of that period. Whilst 'a decline' can happen in real life, the more mundane business of living usually goes on. Pleasure in small things is often the first sign of improvement, like snowdrops at the end of a harsh winter. Food starts to have some taste. Friendships and fellowship rekindle the embers back into a flame. That is how it should be.
On occasion however the grieving does not end. What should be fond, poignant memories become something much darker. Recollection becomes a heaving morass of cloying mud that won't let one go. That is the time to seek help. Alas, Swanwhite did not seek assistance to come out of her grief. She shut herself away in her chambers at Cair Paravel, attended only by her servants. For ten years she was closeted there whilst her frantic son, Ambrose, acted as regent. One bright, sunny morning her maid found her laid on the floor, weak and dazed. For three days she lay in her bed not speaking. Finally she sat up smiling, as if she saw someone welcome before her, then gave up her last breath.
.
THE END
.
Notes:-
1 A traditional opening; there were many Good Kings Frank and it is hard to distinguish one from another
2 Dame school: a rudimentary school usually run by a lone woman
3 Peregrine's precious pig: a Narnian expression
4 Fewmets: droppings of a hunted animal (archaic) – a tribute to TH White "The Sword in the stone"
5 Crosspatch: somebody who is grumpy (expression now mostly fallen out of use)
6 Gonaflon: A standard: used in Narnia of the office-holder – the Royal Standard Bearer
7 West folk: possibly Germanic in origin
8 Svana: a pet name; a corruption of Swan
9 Maw: mouth (archaic)