Much of the early history of England is lost to the Ages, destroyed by flown time and vindictive monarchs. So many early Kings are only known because of the “trusted” Chronicles of historically minded monastery dwellers such as Bede and Gildas. History is of course written by the powerful winners and their monkish scribes. But what of the losers? What of those deliberately scraped from the precious vellum of Lindisfarne and Jarrow by jealous ink-stained pen-pitted hands?
My research in the archives of Lichfield Cathedral has uncovered a priceless document, a true chronicle from the pen of a great leader of Mercia. A document which history has forgotten and those biased gatekeepers at the Elite East Coast scriptoria have done their best to suppress. The personal, raw and at times close to the bone musings of the Greatest of all Mercian Kings. Never before seen by historians, and covering many events that Gildas, Bede and others chose not to record, this manuscripts are truly without parallel. Illustrated by the greatest artist in Mercia, a certain Mike (@WulfgarTheBard), weaver of dreams, illustrator of scenes, painter of... paintings.
It is my indulgent pleasure to present these to posterity and to show you all: The Totally True Not Made Up Un-Fake Chronicles of Donaeld the Unready.
Let’s just get one thing straight guys, I’m Great. The Greatest Bretwalda Mercia ever saw. The Bestwalda. My win was the biggest ever, my Witan the best ever, I put the wit into Witan, everyone knows. Bards should sing of my great victories over the mythical creatures that the DANES sent to attack me. They should sing of my brilliant strategies to outwit the losers in Wales and the soggy idiots in the Fens of East Anglia. They should definitely sing about my great hair. Best hair, ask anyone. But every day they waste good vellum and pretty voices on FAKE CHRONICLES and ALTERNATIVE SAGAS! The failing Jorvik Times! Bernie-cian Barding Collective! Crooked Gildas! Don’t even get me started on total loser Bad Monk Bede! Guys wouldn’t know the truth if it was carried off by Grendel’s Mother. So I asked my thegns and ealdormen and they eventually found someone in Mercia who could write and TELL THE TRUTH, and make it look all believable and pretty. And thanks to the great guys at BreitBard Chronicles, this is it. My Story. FACT!
Twas fustig, and the slimpy tumps
Did grune and twaet on the webe:
So flimsy were the Ankerdumps,
And the meme wraithes covfefe.
“Beware the Jibbertrump, my churl!
The paws so small, the paws that grab!
Beware the Conway Bird, and burl
The frothering Spicerdab!”
She took her micral phone in hand:
Long time a straighted answer sought--
Having stumbled joyfully upon the Mercia/Merica pun, I began to explore further the idea that a 9th century America, complete with grumpy childish warlord and associated characters might be possible. And the joy continued! It was all there. A powerful woman, far more qualified for the job but denied it due to her gender in Aethelflaed (although in a reversal, Aethelflaed donated a large amount of…
My inspiration for Donaeld came from one of those sudden light bulb moments. I spend a worrying amount of my time thinking of puns. Realistically too much time. And they flow. Constantly. Like a babbling brook. Friends sigh regularly. Enemies shake their heads, unwind their arms from the ready to punch pose and walk off because I’m really not worth the bother. Or should I say almost constantly. Because…
These people are helping to fund Donaeld the Unready.