“I would be honored, of course.” I tried not to show how impatient I was to get upstairs while the girls all stood and folded their hands in front of them, then watched Sister Tatyana count down on her fingers from five. When she finished, they began to chant in unison:
A King and Queen, two sons once bore,
Brothers who would go to war.
Bound by blood, but not by heart,
Their battles tore the land apart.
King Henrik ordered, as he died,
His sons to govern side-by-side,
Until one fathered his own heir,
So, power split between the pair.
Johar, the younger, made a claim,
That one young daughter to his name,
Meant he should take his father’s throne,
And raised vast armies of his own.
The elder, Rykard, had no son,
Nor wife, nordaughter, even one.
Still, he would not cede the crown,
And war consumed both field and town.
At last, there came a final clash,
And Rykard’s forces took the lash.
Into the Arden, soldiers ran,
But fresh slaughter there began.
The Faerie Court, with vicious claws,
Snapped up men between their jaws,
Into their flesh, the creatures tore,
And Rykard’s army was no more.
The Prince escaped this deadly fate,
And now, in exile, plans and waits.
But the crown, no Prince can wear,
Without a line, without an heir.
I clapped enthusiastically as the girls all tittered and giggled, clearly pleased with themselves for having remembered the entire poem.
