Interest in history takes on many forms. For some of us its pushing cardboard counters across a map. There are other people who prefer to take their "wargaming" to another plane of realism as this observer found out. What exactly is a varlet? And do you swash a buckle or buckle a swash? Some of these answers can be found through an organization that attempts to recreate the Middle Ages and puts on one of the best shows in Arizona.
The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) meets in Phoenix every year over the Presidents' Day Weekend. It is the second largest encampment in the United States, second only to one in western Pennsylvania.
Some 4,000 people descend upon the Sierra Estrella Park for a schedule of battles. They bring their dogs and kids, their armor and weapons. They duel, they joust, they barter and sell. Their products are historically accurate, and made by true craftsmen, whether it be crossbow or lance, complete armor or clothing for damsels in distress. They are, for these three days, a complete English (or French) settlement of the Middle Ages, right down to the food, drink and fighting. These are not the young swains that used to roam the college malls, carrying wooden swords and playing at being knights in efforts that were laughable. These are hordes of fighting men. Hundreds of them -- dressed in full armor with battle regalia and realistic weapons which are dulled, but not impotent. Divided into kingdoms, baronies and smaller clans, they wait for the climactic moment. They respond to rallying cries and march in formations onto the field of honor. When the battle cry is sounded they charge, stab, slice and fall where they are wounded. On the sidelines their ladies, from princess to trollop, cheer them, then tend to their sometimes too realistic wounds.
We always go there early in the morning. As we wander through the market, and taste the food and smell the smoke of open fires, we see the Saracens, and pikemen, knights and ladies emerging from their tents, stiff and hungry and more than a little weary. Within an hour of the dawn, the horns are crying for war. Kingdoms challenge kingdoms as coalitions and solemn covenants are made. The battle order of the day is formed and the units trudge towards the mist shrouded field. The units stream through the village, emerging singly, then in ever increasing groups. The panoply of war is there as Arabs, Vikings and barbarians head off to do battle with one another.
The barbarians may look barbarous but honor is still the rule. There are formalized rules of engagement, rules that determine when you are wounded and rules to declare you dead. Each member is on his own to honor them. The most important rule is that the steel swords are left behind and replaced by padded implements of war.
The first time we witnessed a battle was a few years ago. White ribbons marked off an area roughly the size of a football field. My wife Shirley and I settled ourselves on the 50 yard line congratulating each other on our good fortune and at the same time wondering why no one else was elbowing their way in. Presently an armored marshal approached and said "Me Lord and Lady, I wouldst advise thee to flee to yon hillock to observe the battle, for I fear thee injury if thou dost tarry where though art." At first I thought he was trying to steal our spot, and considered firing back some comment about him being a nosy varlet or something.
Then I noticed he was big, armored and armed. We withdrew. Not to the hillock as advised, but in its general direction. No sooner had we reached our newly chosen vantage point, then the baton was dropped and the horns blown. In response about 150 men tried to outflank the opposing army by rushing in a perpendicular direction to the field of battle, directly through where we were standing. The opposing side shed a hundred men to meet this sally and a quick estimate put their collision point exactly where we stood. We stampeded for the top of yon hillock and put our backs to a cement-walled latrine.
Below the pummeling, jabbing and throwing of lances merged into a single cacophony. We would have been two grease spots if we had stayed where we were. The wounded lay on the field moaning in their feigned (and not so feigned) agony. For a brief instant we felt as if we were spectators to a real battle.
I am a fan of living history, and the SCA event is certainly that. The number of books, musical instruments and armor that are available in the village suggest the diversity of the following. Men and women ply trades from armor making to goldsmithing to carpentry and looming. Nearly all of these items are for sale, and all of them are handmade, by people who still care about the end product. There are few among the 4000 participants who succumb to the temptation to don modern clothing or check into comfortable hotels despite the wind, rain and cold
The group is growing in the United States. There is even supposed to be a battle planned for Europe this summer. Frankly I doubt that they are re-creating any battle. It seems to me that they are way too enthusiastic about the pummeling part to be mere thespians in a carefully choreographed piece. Maybe that part is more for fun than for history.
John M. Doll is an entomologist who works in Arizona. He devotes part of his time to dusting prairie dog mounds and the rest to his other love -- history.
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© Copyright 1993 by David W. Tschanz.
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