Issue 284 RBW Online

RBW Online

ISSUE 284 Date: 3rd May 2013

Mary Queen of Scots The Staffordshire

Connection Page 12

Peter Branson New Collection

Page 16

No workshop on Monday as library

closed for the Bank Holiday

LIFE OBSERVATIONS One the drawbacks to being on a diet is waking up so early through hunger. BMI : Finding out one is not clinically obese but merely overweight is a dou-ble edged sword ... Should one be pleased, or horrified? County Council elections .... Yawn ... Hail stones and frosty mornings again ... How industrious the humble mole. I wonder at heaps of molehills in a nearby field even through the ground has been frozen solid. A very cross wagtail attacks his reflection in the landing window with his wings and beak Crafty: two pigeons evolve a strategy: they wait under the bird table for seed spillage ... thus proving there is such a thing as a free lunch.

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pernicious adj Malicious, wicked or causing harm, destruction or death

mignon adj Small and cute; pretty in a delicate way; dainty.

swage n A tool, used by blacksmiths and metalworkers, for cold shaping of a metal

item.

fons honorum n A person who, by virtue of sovereignty, holds the exclusive right to

create and confer legitimate titles of nobility and orders of chivalry.

Salient adj Noticeable or striking, projecting outwards, in heraldry jumping animal

Synchromesh noun Gear system in which speeds of the driving and driven parts are

synchronised before they engage to make changing gear smoother

contumelious adj Rudely contemptuous; showing contumely; insolent or disdainful.

selcouth adj Strange unusual rare: wondrous ... (Word seldom used nowadays)

vociferation n The act of exclaiming, violent outcry, vehement utterance with the

voice

rictus n A bird's gaping mouth. Any open-mouthed expression often associated

with open mouth of a corpse

CLIVE’s three FREE e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

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Steph’s two FREE poetry e-chapbooks now published on www.issuu.com/

risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

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2012: RBW FREE e-books NOW

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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Random Words : Agatha, once, stress, rain, existence, life, vicarage, moot Assignment: May Day

Agnes was a substantial woman, broad of beam, abit befuddled, with a face like a pickle, whose destiny was to remain firmly on the shelf whilst all her friends had married and produced children. She was star-struck, and read glossy magazines, which only served to compound her jealousy of all those glitzy, butterfly-like girls, dripping with expensive jewellery, and sonorous, sing-song voices. She decided to have a full makeover, and sat in the salon chair, staring at all the jars and potions on the shelves. Maybe some face paint and a new hair-style would improve her chances of finding love. “I want the works.” “Let‟s start with a cleanser, then. Lots of my regulars like Clinique”. Agnes looked around, but couldn‟t see the brand the beautician had recom-mended. “Which one?” she asked. “That high pot, ten use it”. PMW

YE SLIGHTY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY

YE CAST OF CHARACTERS NB: Historical accuracy is NOT encouraged

Nobles and similar Harffa Ye Kyng. Not ye sharpest knyfe in ye drawer. Queen Agatha (the tight fisted) Don Key O‟Tee Spanish ambassador to Court of Kyng Harffa .. Wants saint‟s big toe back Baron Leonard Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough Wyfe of ye Baron Della Bluddschott Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. GalLa of Hadnt Hall A Prince but Charmless Daniel Smithers Constable of Bluddschott Castle and maybe the Corowner of the County Old Maids Vera, Gloria and Bertha husband hunting sisters of Baron

Bluddschott Evil Sherriff and Baron Morbidd up to no good Morgan le Fey king‟s evil sister - Merlin the king‟s magician Ye Knights [they‟re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne Cottavere, Percivere Mailish (Narrator) Page to Baron Bluddschott (Probably Son by wife‟s sister) NEW CHARACTER: Richard Coeur de Poulet — returning Crusader Religiouse Lionel, Bishop of Trentby keeper of the Mappa Tuessdi Abbot Costello of Nottalot, a Nasturtium Abbey desperate for pilgrim pennies

Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere, a Calligrapher Wyllfa the Druid Sorcerer Others Big Jock A Welsh poacher and short wide-boy. Robbin‟ Hoodie another poacher and wide-boy. Peeping Barry member of Hoodie‟s gang of miscreants Clarence the cook and a Wandering Troubadour None living The Ghostly Sword of Bluddschott Castle The Mappa Tuessdi ... Velum maps of the known world bought in a bazaar in

Constantinople for a few pennies by Vladimir oft times copied The toe bone of St. Gastric. Gallstone of St. Hilarious Crocodile and a Unicorn and a Dragon carved in stone

Good luck, we ’ l l need it ...

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When Wyllfa heard that the wedding of Prince Galla of Hadn’t and Della had been

brought forward and that at that very moment the ugly sisters were in their rooms

getting ready for the celebration, he panicked. He hadn’t had time to prepare three

of his well-built, muscular knights for the shock that they were to be married to the

three old maids. However, in the minds of the Bluddschott sisters, Gloria was now

betrothed to Sir Cottavere, Bertha to Sir Percivere and Vera to Sir Lancealittle, ‘til

death did them part. Another worry for Wyllfa was that Baron Morbid and Don Key

O’ Tee were blissfully unaware that they had been dumped by their wives-to-be.

The humiliation for them would have serious consequences for Wyllfa. In his desire

to knock Merlin off his pedestal, vital parts of the Druid’s plan were still half-

finished. Life didn’t seem fair! His idea had been perfect, but now that the wedding

had been brought forward, everything was moving too fast; spiralling out of con-

trol. The wily Welsh Druid was distraught. It would need a miracle to get out of the

mess he was in and then he had a brilliant idea. He would cast a spell to spirit

away the wedding ring. That would buy him the time he needed.

Wyllfa mixed up a potion, but having no faith that it would work, he swore in

Welsh, stirred the concoction and absentmindedly drank the brew himself. He

sighed wearily and wished with all his might that the ring would come floating into

his turret workroom. Of course this didn’t happen, but miracle of miracles, a local

pick-pocket relieved Prince Galla of the precious gold band as he was leaving the

local tavern. Luckily, the Prince was completely unaware that the ring was missing

as he prepared to wed his bride.

’I am slightly worried,’ Wyllfa confided to the knights who had come to escort him

to the wedding celebrations.

‘About what?’ asked Sir Cottavere.

‘About Merlin,’ replied Wyllfa. ‘He will get jealous if he sees me escorted to the

wedding by four splendid looking knights. I don’t want him casting unpleasant

spells on you. To be safe I think that only Sir Dwayne should escort me. You, Sir

Cottavere, should escort Lady Gloria; you, Sir Percivere, should escort Lady Bertha;

and you, Sir Lancealittle, escort Lady Vera. This will confuse Merlin who has been

boasting that it was his spells that got two of the Bluddschott sisters betrothed,

Vera to that Spaniard and Bertha to the Morbid Baron. Remember that it is the

duty of honourable knights to rescue maidens in distress, so be nice to the sisters.

‘They are hardly maidens,’ moaned Sir Lancealittle ‘They’re all old enough to be

my mother.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Wyllfa. ‘If you complete your task gallantly you will all re-

ceive a double portion of honour and be known as the noble knights of the slightly

oblong table.’

‘What about me?’ whined Sir Dwayne.

‘I have a special quest for you,’ said Wyllfa. ‘I need you to distract Don Key o’

Tee. We can’t have him spoiling the wedding by weeping and wailing over his bro-

ken engagement. This too is a task that will bring you honour.’

‘What about Baron Morbid?’ asked Sir Percivere.

‘He’s such a misery anyway that nobody will notice anything unusual if he’s un-

happy at the celebrations.

Wyllfa was relieved that his knights were so gullible and so obliging, if only he’d

known that the wedding ring was missing, his joy would have been complete. ‘The

three escorts should go now,’ said Wyllfa. ‘Remember to be especially gallant to

the sisters. Dwayne and I will follow in a moment.’

Vera, Bertha and Gloria had spent hours making themselves look stunningly Issue 284

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beautiful. It would be unkind to say they were attempting the impossible and mean-spirited to

think the wrinkled old spinsters shouldn’t have bothered. But in their defence it has to be

admitted that when the sisters came from their rooms and saw the knights, standing in the cor-

ridor in all their manly splendour, the ugly sisters felt radiant for the first time in their lives.

Their husbands-in-waiting were perfect.

Happily the simple-minded knights remembered that it was their knightly duty to be gallant

and an innocent onlooker might be excused for thinking the three couples were star-struck lov-

ers off to tie the knot. If Wyllfa had been born a few centuries later he might have thought, ‘oh

what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’ But he wasn’t and, when he

caught sight of the three couples, all he thought was ‘hallelujah, my plan is working’. He turned

to Dwayne who was tripping lightly beside him and said, ‘A quadruple marriage would be fun; a

sensational scoop for the Trentby Church Newsletter. We need to speak to Bishop Lionel and

Abbot Costello. This could be bigger than their silly gall stones and toe bones. Remind me to

mention that when I speak to them.’

‘I will,’ said Dwayne, smiling at the Spanish Ambassador. ‘If four wedding are newsworthy,

five weddings would be even more of a scoop.’

THE WEDDING DAY OF DELLA, OR IS IT? ACW

The castle was ablaze with colour as would befit the wedding day of Lady Della, the beloved

only child of Baron Leonard of Bluddschott and his Lady, Gwenever.

Great banner flags, the standards of each aristocratic house, fluttered in the breeze from

every turret and tower and at every door and window in celebration and tribute.

Invited guests to the inner castle were of the highest society, with feast tables set out in the

fields under the castle walls for all the villagers to share in the great day.

The Great Hall shone from polished gold and silver and pewter plate and goblet, so fine you

could see your reflection.

The raised dais held the wedding party’s trestle table and great throne seats and was be-

decked in timber frame entwined with every colourful flower and translucent cloth billowing

gently.

All the wedding party would be dressed in equal splendor to trick bad spirits bent on mis-

chief on the bride and groom and keep them safe from harm, so each had the same gold plate

set before them.

Facing the wedding party were rows of trestle tables and benches along the walls of the

Great Hall for all the invited guests from society.

Such food was piled high on the tables, covered but a little to keep in pristine condition, that

would not be seen by a villager in his life-time all gathered at one time.

Great lengths of plates of breads flanked by cheeses and butter and high circular or square

pies seem to go on forever into the gloom of the Great Hall, awaiting all the torches and can-

dles to be lit for the wedding feast to come.

The pitchers of spiced mulled wine were all lined up for service by the army of servants, at

the moment like an army of ants scurrying in high hiatus to make all ready.

A great Boar’s head held a massive red apple in his long tusk-flanked maw.

A goose appeared to lay a golden egg.

A rare quail sat amongst fine little eggs like porcelain.

And this was repeated again and again along the long table rows.

A table heaved with a bewildering array of tarts and custards in amazing designs, some a

faithful copy of the great castle itself. All bedecked in rare fruits.

No guests were in the Great Hall as yet, as all were gathering to enter the huge Castle

Chapel for the wedding service.

At the castle gates, a noble knight approached with his squire dressed differently than any

knight seen before, but then the Guard at the gate looked in awe, for he recognized the regalia

of a Crusader, all dressed in long white tunic-like surcoat and cape upon which was the great

red cross of St George, that saved him from burning to a crisp when wearing all his armour,

under which was his chainmail.

Hung from the fine saddle was his great shield of St George, and a mighty sword and helm

of burnished silver coloured metal and gold, atopped with the design of curved bull horns.

The Guard stood rigid to attention, his spear held close to his side in tribute.

The great steed strode imperiously on to a courtyard now filled with admiring soldiers, giving

him a rapt hero’s welcome.

For they all knew the great Crusader was none other than Earl Let d’Just Holdthis.

At this moment, the Lady Gwenever’s lady maid glanced out of the window when fussing

over her Lady’s hair. And her hand froze as her gaze fixed on the scene below.

‘Having another Senior moment are we? just leave it,’ exclaimed the Lady Gwenever and

beckoned another maid to help her with her bodice.

Bowing away, Gwenever’s lady maid serenely left, only to turn into a run out in the passage-

way, and finding a secret door behind a hung carpet on the wall, hurtled down it to the room

where sat the bride (so everyone thought) in well laced up flowing dress and flower bedecked

translucent veil awaiting the summons to the Chapel.

‘Psst, Celia,’ and Celia went behind a screen.

‘What d’ya want mum, you’ll give the game away!’

‘We’re snuckered girl, the Crusader is here’.

‘Gazooks, we all thought him long passed away into the other world in some great crusades

to regain the Holy Land. Did he not think himself engaged and long betrothed to Della? You’re

going to have to put him off and say someone else is married this day, mum.’

‘You what? Is that the cunning plan? We’re doomed I tell ye, we’re all doomed.’

Then a maid cried, ‘Mistress,’ and Celia put on her posh voice and called back, ‘Anon dear

Nurse, Anon.’ And turning back, hissed a whisper, ‘Get ye gone mom, think of sommat quick!’

The Crusader Earl Let d’Just Holdthis dismounted from his great steed and looked about

him. With all the ornaments he thought all this was for his return and stroke towards the Great

Hall, where he would expect some celebration on his return.

But upon his entry all he found was the army of scurrying servants who all froze in their

tracks upon seeing him. All that could be heard was the hiss of the fire in the hall’s centre and

the only movement the smoke circling up through lantern tower above.

The Majordomo approached and bowed to the Crusader, ‘Sire, might I be so bold as to en-

treat ye to proceed to the Chapel, for the wedding has yet to take place. I am sure the Officer

of the Guard will accompany you.’

‘Wedding, whose wedding?’

The Majordomo bowed and informed, ‘Why Sire, all the kingdom rejoices in the marriage of

the Lady Della, our most beloved daughter of Baron Bluddschott, to the great Prince Galla of

Hadnt, the son of Her Highness Morgan le Fey.’

‘Morgan le Fey! Me Della is marrying into that evil brood. I’ll kill this Prince, I will, I’ll cleave

him in two.’

The Crusader hurled out of the Great Hall and took his sword and shield into his hands.

The Baron approached the Crusader, ‘You’re alive, well let all the saints be blessed. For we

thought you lost to us, long time back. I am so pleased and honoured of your visit, my dear

Earl.’

‘Never mind all that. Della is engaged to me and I’ll kill this dratted groom I will.’

‘That is your right of course, d’Just Holdthis, but we will need time to set up a tourney.’

‘Never mind a tourney, we will have trial by combat right here in the courtyard. Fetch the

swine to me, now, Baron.’

Morgan le Fey smirked from her window down upon the scene, and muttered to herself, This

couldn’t be better. I can make all believe my son is gone from this realm to the underworld in

mortal combat and get out of this dratted marriage. I will do better for my son than this silly chit

of a girl, Della.

The Master of Wardrobe bowed deeply to Prince Galla of Hadnt, ‘Your Highness, someone

comes without to declare his impediment to your marriage to the Lady Della, citing a prior en-

gagement and calls you out to trial by combat for her hand in marriage.’

The Prince hurried to the window and winced visibly when he saw the tall, muscled Crusader

with great sword and shield of St George, making out no words but hearing a voice full of battle

rage and seeing a face like thunder.

‘Oh goodey, not much chance of a wedding night at this rate. Call my armourer to get me fit-

ted up and fetch me that nice new sword belt.’

‘At once, your Highness.’

In the courtyard, all the soldiers on the watch, and off it, had gathered for the unexpected

spectacle to add to the day’s activities. Side bets were being laid in a discreet manner.

The two men squared up to each other, shields up and swords at the ready.

The Baron stood aside and battle commenced.

Steel rang against steel, shield crushed against shield. The great helms being a mere slit of

the eyes to see, swords rang against armour to the thrill exclaimed in lusty male shouts of ad-

miration.

‘Cut ‘em off. That be right, get his head off. Get him in the eye.’

This went on for a goodly while.

Lady Gwenever’s Lady Maid hid behind a cart in the courtyard in mortal terror, for this was a

fight to the death and would not Morgan le Fey do something terrible upon the person of the

Crusader, she mused, or even worse take this opportunity to have a go at the Baron.

‘I can’t take this anymore,’ she wailed to herself and hurled forward in floods of tears to-

wards the battleground.

‘Stop, Oh stop please do stop. I can’t bear it. I must tell all to your Hignesses. For you fight in

vain and die mistook.’

And wailed on, ‘Oh Earl, ye not be betrothed to the Lady Della, but to my dear sweet Celia,

her lady’s maid. It was thought a prank but it went on too long and mischief made and then all

was in fear of your wrath, for the inadvertent slight upon your person, not intended Sire. No not

at all. It were all but a jocular prank. Gone so terrible wrong.’

All the guards groaned at the abrupt end of their fun and the loss of profit from the bets. No

lottery win this day.

‘The Baron betrothed me to a… a … Lady’s Maid. I’ll kill him.’

And the Earl turned towards the Baron, who gave out one word… ‘Oh Drat!

No, no, no. I must tell even more, Sires.’

‘I wish you would,’ said the Baron.

‘Good friends of my family helped me escape a terrible fate that I know gives me nothing but

shame.’ She cried on, ‘I escaped my betrothal to a giant of a man with a paunch that carries all

before him, of royal line of the Tsar’s, with amazing crooked and blackened teeth, called Ivano-

vitch the Bald. I was in terror, as he would have carried me off to some Godforsaken country

seat in frozen north of Siberia, after the warm land of Constantinople. I gained passage by of-

fering a fake Mappa Tuesddi to the ship’s captain. My real name is Princess Styx d’Dryhill de-

scended through Byzantine Emperor bloodlines to one of the Tsars, Ilyavitch d’ Constant.

Celia’s real name is Atheena d’Guise, as the Baron well knows.’

And the Princess and the Baron exchanged the briefest of smiles.

‘A Byzantine royal, oh wow. Right that’s it, I’m not bothered, You can keep your Della,

Baron. I have a prior engagement.’

And the great Crusader shook hands with the Prince.

‘Ah a draw, all the bets are off, muttered a guard. The Guards went back to smiling.’

And this moment, the companion to the Crusader chose to approach along the drawbridge,

through castle gates and dismounted.

The Crusader turned and introduced him to now known Princess Styx d'Dryhill, ‘This is your

actual betrothed, for you were mistook by name, your Highness. May I present Tsar Ivan Bal

d’Boc come to claim his bride and return you to his palace in Constantinople.’

Tsar Bal d’Boc smiled at his intended, ‘It’s a good thing I realized you were off with a fake

Mappa Tuessdi from the neighbouring merchant’s quarters and was my pleasure to discreetly

pay the ship’s captain and others to look after you, or you would have been in a right pickle,

my girl. But enough is enough, you’ve had your bit of fun, time to come home, lass.’

Princess Styx shielded her view of admiration indeed of the olive skinned, hard-muscled

young man of comely features, with flowing jet black locks, dressed in fine robes and his best

gold-festooned breastplate and holding a staff with a hoard of Byzantine gold thereon that

had come to the shire by the merchant from Constantinople.

Then a kafuffle happened, as various friends of the intended bride that day, the Lady Della,

ran to give the dread news.

‘Oh Baron, Baron, Celia’s dressed up as Della again. Della’s done a bunk, she has, Sire.

We have searched high and low, but none can find her in the castle.’

‘I’ve been jilted before we’ve got to the chapel. I shall seek a great sum in compensation I

shall, ye shall pay dearly Baron, cried Prince Galla of Hadn’t.’

The Baron groaned and so did the Guards, because it would come out of their pay and

perks.

At this moment Merlin came forward, his eyes wondrously changed and flourished his arms

whilst recounting the words from deep magic, no other man could comprehend.

The great white mare that had long been the Groom’s favourite ride, in a blink of an eye be-

came a beautiful unicorn and then mists swirled and a young girl came into being from the

shape of the unicorn, with her naked splendor now wondrously clothed by gossamer translu-

cent sweeping ivory-white wedding dress, all festooned in Spring flowers in bodice and en-

twined into her long flowing russet golden locks that reached to her waist.

Merlin introduced to the Baron and gathered throng, ‘May I present to you Princess Fey

d’Seraphina, spirit daughter to the High Fairy Queen of Woodbine and the Baron that has

been magically returned to you here.’

Merlin continued, ‘May the Baron be pleased to learn that the Fairy Council offer in be-

trothal their beloved daughter of the Fairy Queen to Prince Galla of Hadnt, for his purity of

heart gives an excellent union, to fight the darkness of heart that would take the heart from

us, but not this day, not this day will our courage fail against the evil that lurks to do us all

harm. Today we are free to live in our own Atlantis, now grown amongst our own hearth and

home. The union is commended to you, Baron, would you accept.’

The Lady Gwenever had come to the Baron’s side.

The Baron looked to his Gwennie, who nodded serenely as befits her station. Raised him-

self him to his regal heights and brought their hands together fast of the Groom and Bride

and the castle erupted in one joyous cry from all.

Morgan le Fey gulped hard up in her turret and in misery spoke to herself, This spirit

daughter of the Baron will be more than a match for my magic, for it is from the highest good-

ness and not evil magic from the depths of hell itself. ‘Drat, foiled again,’ she muttered aside

darkly, hardly daring to whisper her irritation to herself.

The Baron smiled and gave a long sigh, and his Gwennie whispered in his ear, ‘Saved by

your philandering ….’ And the rest of the Queen’s words were drowned out by thun-

derous stamping joining the joyous loud tumult from the throng.

Gwennie whispered aside to the Baron, ‘Now all we have to do is find where Della

has hid in the castle after her daft prank with Celia, and tell her the good news that

her Groom will wed his horse and that the Crusader will also wed this day with the

Byzantine High Princess Atheena d’Guise, she mistook for her Lady’s Maid all this

time. We may as well not miss out on the wedding feast, hey! ‘

‘The plans of mice and men!’ Happily whispered back the Baron.

‘Hey up! Who’s that?’ asked Mailish swilling cider and wishing his head could stop

spinning, as another crusader knight tottered into the yard on an old nag half buck-

led under the weight of the old campaigner and his ancient armour.

‘I thought he was dead,’ said Clarence, ‘it’s the Baron’s cousin, Sir Richard Coeur

de Poulet, knight of the night-closet. Funny how a wedding or three draws in impover-

ished relatives from the ends of the earth, ain’t it?’

Assignment: Spring is sprung (PMW) The spring is sprung

And about time too! We’re sick of ice and snow! Enough of rain and wind and cold! It’s nice to see things grow. The grass is riz. It needs a trim. Must get the lawn mower out. My back it aches, my neck it’s stiff;- I’m quite unfit, no doubt. The little bird is on the wing. He’ll soon begin to nest. One flew over my new car And plopped on it:- The pest! Yes, spring is sprung, But I feel rough. Now where’s that Deep Heat gel?

I’m getting old:- An hour of work

Has made me feel like hell!

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Doris‟s husband watched TV all day. “Countdown” was his favourite pro-gramme, and Carol Vorderman his favourite star. To Bert, she was a beautiful butterfly, with a sexy, sonorous voice when she called out the numbers and letters for the show‟s contestants. Doris thought he was befuddled and barely disguised her jealousy. Doris wanted him to paint the kitchen, but he wasn‟t much of a handy-man, and got in a pickle, with emulsion dripping all over the floor. Doris had to get a man in to finish the job, at a substantial cost. It was her destiny to spend her pension putting right jobs Bert had messed up. But Doris was quite deaf. “I like her hypotenuse!” Bert leered. “How dare you say I‟m like a hippopotamus?” his hard-of-hearing, long-suffering spouse accused. (PMW)

At the front entrance to the Grange Nursing Home, two black horses pulling the hearse had plumes of midnight blue feathers adorning their harness. The „countess‟ would have liked that touch of splen-dour thought Alexander watching from his window, it would have touched that fey streak in her soul: a salient wantonness in syn-chromesh with an inordinate joie de vivre. The whip cracked and the horses strode off as one, the wheels crunching on gravel and only a song-thrush giving its support. It felt like an ending. (SMS)

THE MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS CONNECTION

Stafford is a town in which almost nothing sensational happens. Apart from the poor chap whose part-

ner died while making love, and thought the way to handle this was to put her naked body in a wheelie

bin, I can't recall any really sensational development that involved sex, violence and some form of high

profile death in the thirty years I have been here.

Whenever a bit of sword and gunshot violence happens, it does not take place in Stafford itself. Staf-

ford Castle is lacking ghosts from a blood stained past, and when a real outbreak of ultra violence

came about in the Civil War, it merely amounted to a skirmish – at Hopton on the road to Uttoxeter.

Prince Rupert may have shot an arrow from the Bear Inn, but only to hit the weather vane on top of St

Mary's church.

Stafford is simply not a place where history happens, so the best we can do is pick up the crumbs of

Big History when it happens just about inside the Borough boundary. And tonight I give you –

STAFFORDS PART IN THE DOWNFALL OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

Mary was of course a major player in the death and destruction stakes, though she never actually

killed anyone, she was personally involved in two major incidents of spectacular murder, one possible

rape and the subsequent marriage to the man who might have raped her. The whole sequence lead to

her expulsion from Scotland and 19 years in exile in England where she was the centre of a web of

violent incidents. Wherever Mary went, Mayhem followed. And she came well inside the Borough

boundary at the very moment when her final act was about to be played.

It started so well. She was married to the French Dauphin and became Queen of France in her late

teens. But the angel of death was never far away where Mary was concerned, and her husband died in

agony of a brain infection before her 18th birthday. She was then packed off back to Scotland, a coun-

try which she hardly knew and which she completely misunderstood. However it was not her failure to

grasp Scots culture which was the main problem this was her appalling choice of MEN.

She married Lord Darnley, who proved to be up to no good and though he got her pregnant with her

son the later King James VI, he demanded the Crown Matrimonial and when she refused to give him a

right to the thone they fell out. He then suspected she was having an affair with her Italian secretary

Rizzio and with a group of armed men entered the chamber of the pregnant Queen leading to a scuffle

in which Rizzio was murdered. A few days later there was a temporary reconciliation, which was in-

credible, especially once Mary having given birth went to see Lord Bothwell. By the end of 1566

tongues were wagging all over Scotland.

They wagged even more when on the night of 9-10th January 1567 Darnley's house at Kirk o' Fields,

Edinburgh, was blown up and Darnley found murdered in the grounds. Bothwell was tried but acquit-

ted after no evidence was offered against him, and he then pursued his relationship with Mary by kid-

napping and possibly raping her, after which on May 15th 1567 they were married.

The Calvinistic Scots had had enough of this outrageous behaviour. The errant couple were arrested

and Bothwell sent into exile, while Mary escaped to England before the judges could assemble to try to

find out what part she had played in the death of her second husband and the behaviour of her third.

When she got to England she was immediately imprisoned, becoming the biggest headache Elizabeth I

had to deal with in the whole of her reign.

THE ROAD TO STAFFORD BOROUGH.

Although she did not know it, Mary had started on the long and winding road that would eventually

lead her into Stafford Borough. Her presence in England gave the government major headaches. She

was heir to the throne via her mother, Henry VIII's sister and as a Catholic she was the focus of plots to

remove her cousin Elizabeth from the throne either through murder or a foreign invasion or both. She

could not be sent back to the Scots, who might lose her again, or allowed to leave for the Continent,

where she would immediately be the focus of an attempt to invade England to put her on the throne.

Elizabeth had no choice but to imprison Mary. She was moved around from prison to prison and came

to Staffordshire because one of her prisons was Tutbury castle. She was allowed out under armed

guard for exercise, and was particularly fond of horse riding. The main attraction of being allowed out

of Tutbury was to get away from the privies, which stank so much they could be smelt half a mile away.

Issue 284

Page 12

Meanwhile the Spanish were preparing their Armada invasion which if successful could put her on the throne.

Elizabeth neither wanted to execute her nor have her die in captivity. Tutbury was not healthy and as Mary's health

was poor, a more salubrious place was sought. And this was to be found in Stafford Borough, remote in the C16th but

with strong links to the court despite much evidence of inhabitants with surviving Catholic sympathies.

Her jailer, Amyas Paulat, approached Sir John Aston, who owned Tixall Hall. However despite the pride and status

which led him to build the still surviving Gate House – his house as such was demolished in 1927 – Aston was a mag-

istrate and did not want to turn his house into Mary's jail. However there was a smaller but still suitable moated house

at Stowe by Chartley. Paulat therefore decided to move Mary from Tutbury, ten miles East of Uttoxeter, to the house

next to the castle of Stowe by Chartley ten miles west of Uttoxeter. And so she arrived in Stafford Borough.

STOWE BY CHARTLEY

Mary's new prison was not the castle itself, which had long been a ruined mediaeval relic. The moated manor was on

the site of what is still called Chartley Hall, in the grounds of the castle and built by the owners after the castle was

abandoned. The current house is the third to be built on the site but it has abandoned the moat which made the

House an ideal prison. It was co-incidentally one of the romantic houses in Elizabethan England.

The house was well known within the court of Elizabeth 1, being one of the homes of Walter Devereux, first Earl of Es-

sex who married Lettice Knollys and in 1565 saw his son born to become his heir. The seond Earl of Essex inherited

the property from his father on the latters death in 1576 when he was eleven years old. Two years later his mother

married the Earl of Leicester, Elizabeth's favourite Robert Dudley and was clearly an attractive woman. But nowhere

near as attractive as her daughter Penelope. Penelope was born around 1562, three years before her brother the sec-

ond Earl, and was to have a truly amazing love life.

A year before the first Earl died, Elizabeth visited the House on one of her tours round the country. Legend has it that

one of the members of the Party was Sir Robert Sidney, who met the thirteen year old Penelope, fell in love with her,

and made her his muse. There is no doubt Penelope become the subject of the second greatest sonnet sequence of

the Elizabethan age, Astrophil and Stella, (ie Starlove and Star). Like Petrarch's Laura sequence this was about unre-

quited love. Stella or Penelope went on to have an astonishing series of liasons, but Sir Philip Sidney never requited

his love for her. What happened in Chartley stayed in Chartley.

Thus Mary came to be imprisoned in Essex's house because of the accident that the second Earl was in charge at

Stowe and after his presentation at Court in 1585, he was amenable to allowing his Chartley home to be used as a

prison. Already a favourite of the Queen (he would become master of the Queen's horses in 1587) he was starting the

rise to fame which would lead him to have his head cut off in 1601, but that too is another story. The point is that on

Christmas Eve 1585 the sick and controversial Mary arrived at Stowe-by-Chartely for imprisonment in Chartley Hall.

At this time the latest conspiracy involving her was being mooted, the Babington Plot, What Mary did not know was

that the spymaster Walsingham was reading all her letters, and when she finally wrote down her agreement to have

Elizabeth assassinated, Walsingham could at last overcome Elizabeth's reluctance to take action against Mary. And

finally she came to her closest point to the town of Stafford.

In |August 1586 Walsingham ordered Paulet to take her hunting, while leading

members of her household were arrested and her papers searched. Thus on

11th August she was hunting near Tixall when she was finally taken into custody

and imprisoned at Tixall, Sir John Aston being the Sherriff of the County having

no choice but to allow this. She was at Tixall for two weeks before being taken

back to Chartley and then to Fotheringay for her trial and execution.

Nothing much ever happens in Stafford. But at least the violent and conspirato-

rial web of intrigue around Mary Queen of Scots did have a Staffordian tinge –

she did at least spend some time in Tixall.

First read at the Staffordshire Knot Story Telling Club 23. 04. 13

© Trevor Fisher 3/2013

Mary after François Clouet, c. 1559

Wikipedia image

2013 is the centenary of a moment that changed history

Audio entertainment website listenupnorth.com is very pleased to be running a NATIONAL writing

competition as part of the Emily Inspires! programme of events to commemorate 100 years since the

death of Suffragette Emily Davison who sustained fatal injuries at Epsom Derby whilst protesting for

'Votes for Women'.

We want to create awareness of Emily & how she continues to inspire our our lives today. Therefore

we would love as many people as possible to enter (and not just women!)

Please could you pass the details of our writing competition onto your writing group members and any-

one else in your network that you think may be interested. (closing date May 10th)

Winning entries will be read out over the Emily Inspires! commemorative

weekend in Morpeth (13-15 June 2103) and recorded for listenupnorth.com

Prizes include an i-pad, a 2 night stay in Longhirst Hall a luxury

Northumberland hotel http://www.longhirst.co.uk/ & £100 cash donated by SCA paper products of

Prudhoe.

To find full details including terms & conditions & a pdf of competition details:

http://www.listenupnorth.com/writer-profiles/writing-competition

listenupnorth.com

[email protected]

It's back to the classic format in this edition of The Loop on Radio Wildfire with a brand new mix of

material – Now playing 24/7 as powerful a selection of stories, satires, poetry, spoken word, music and inter-view transmitted @ www.radiowildfire.com - another continuous Loop of live literature and chat.

In this edition ... The Loop brings you spoken word with music from around the world including Hands Aloof in Botswana; Dave

Migman currently in Scotland; Michael Clifton in New Zealand; Norman Cristofoli in Canada; and Albarz from England. Also in The Loop there's poetry from Nick Toczek's new cd Motormouth; a story from Jonathan Taylor; and a satirical take on retail from Dwane Reads. The Loop brings you song from Victor Matell; and

Billy & Lozz; and acoustic guitar playing from Manelli Jamal. Plus Chris Hoskins latest single in aid of Amnesty International. There's an interview with Superbard aka George Lewkowicz about his superb e-book project The Flood together with a couple of examples which mix story, song and music in an exciting and inventive

way ... and this is a project that you can get involved in, so listen and respond. So join us and listen by going to www.radiowildfire.com and clicking on The Loop

(And don‟t forget, you can upload soundfiles of your own work to the 'Submit' page of the Radio Wildfire web-site. Mp3s are our preferred format. You can also ensure you always get reminders of upcoming shows on Radio Wildfire by following us on Twitter.) The Loop is curated by Vaughn Reeves and will play online continuously for the next month (approximately),

except during our live broadcast on Monday 6th May starting at 8.00pm UK time with a full programme of pre-recorded tracks, live studio guests and conversation.

WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, performance literature,

comedy, storytelling, short stories and more with a novel selection of word/music fusion and an eclectic mix of musical styles. www.radiowildfire.com currently broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on the first Monday of every month.

Listen to Radio Wildfire at www.radiowildfire.com where The Loop plays 24 hours a day.

NB RBW does not endorse any competition, or workshop, or event organised by third parties.

Issue 284

Page 14

NB RBW does not endorse any competition, or workshop, or event organised by third parties.

Stafford Art Group

Annual Awards Exhibition

ANCIENT HIGH HOUSE

starts

MAY 8th 2013

RBW has emptied out our storage locker and no longer needs a sack truck cum trolley with going up stairs wheels similar to this one in the picture. These cost about £50.00 new plus carriage. We are open to sensible offers. If interested please contact Steph by email or use the website contact box. Thank you.

Issue 284

Page 15

Issue 284

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———————————————

RED HILL

PETER BRANSON

———————————————

SELECTED POEMS 2000-2012

A native of mid Staffordshire, Peter Branson has lived in Cheshire for the last

twenty two years. He taught English Literature in secondary and further edu-

cation and now organises creative writing classes for adults. His poetry has

been published or accepted for publication by journals in Britain, USA, Can-

ada, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, including Acumen,

Agenda, Ambit, Anon, Envoi, The London Magazine, The Warwick Review,

Iota, Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter's House, Magma, Poetry Nottingham,

South, The New Writer, Crannog, The Raintown Review, The Columbia Re-

view, The Huston Poetry Review, Barnwood, The Able Muse and Other Po-

etry. His first collection, The Accidental Tourist, was published in May 2008.

A second collection was published at the beginning of 2012 by Caparison

Press for The Recusant. More recently a pamphlet has been issued by Silk-

worms Ink. He has won prizes and been placed in a number of competitions

over recent years, including a 'highly commended' in the Petra Kenny Interna-

tional, first prizes in the Grace Dieu and the Envoi International and a special

commendation in the 2012 Wigtown.

ISBN 978-1-909252-37-0

Belfast Lapwing £10.00

e-book version also available

Peter tells us he has just been nominated for the prestigious FORWARD PRIZE FOR POETRY

and we hope to see him at a RBW workshop in June.

The Hillsborough Tragedy

At the F A Cup semi-final between

Liverpool and Nottingham Forest

on 15th April 1989, overcrowding resulted in the

deaths of 96 people with 766 others injured.

All were supporters of Liverpool F. C.

(Main melody: ‘The Sharpsville Massacre’, by Ewan

McColl. Chorus: ‘The Rising of the Moon’, J C

Carey, arr. Luke Kelly)

It’s Saturday, so what’s the rush,

And why that soppy grin?

I’m on my way to Hillsborough,

The FA Cup to win.

Though road works cause a bottleneck,

We’re here for three o’clock.

There’s crushing on the terraces;

Two pens are overstocked.

Chorus: You’ll never walk alone my

friends,

You’ll never walk alone.

St James Park to White Hart

Lane,

You’ll never walk alone.

I ask where all the bobbies are,

Why safety doors are locked.

Some folk round here are dying,

Yet still the match kicks off.

We can’t believe what’s happening,

Shocked people stand and stare:

The pitch is like a battlefield

with bodies everywhere.

Chorus

It’s funeral after funeral,

Seems far too much to bear;

Whole city is united

as anger trumps despair.

Police evidence gets doctored,

It’s always been the same;

The great and good colluding,

To their eternal shame.

Chorus

The Sun crawls out one morning

The wrong side of the bed:

Swears fans were drunk and violent

And looted their own dead.

The inquest rules by three-fifteen

All ninety-four had died.

We now know there were forty-one

Who might have been revived.

Chorus

The final toll is ninety-six,

The youngest aged just ten;

One man’s four years on life support

But never speaks again.

In twenty-twelve we’re told the truth,

What football’s always known.

St James’ Park to White Hart Lane,

You’ll never walk alone.

Chorus

Bukes

Desperate to suit, second hand uniform,

you’re tagged before you know, your badge home-

sewn;

reprise, worst nightmare, elocution blues.

“It’s ‘bucks’ we read, not ‘bukes’. You’re mortified,

your flattened vowels like dog turd under shoes.

From smug suburbia, your master smiles:

“Say ‘buss’ not ‘buzz’, front garden snug behind

tame privet hedge, your cheeks electric fires.

Later that day, in scarf and duffel coat,

homework stone cold, you trace your future on

the window of your room, ice crystalline,

lichen on tombs, or freshly-laundered sheets

left out too long, before clean air came in,

x ray of hacking cough gone sadly wrong.

Peter Branson (RED HILL)

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