In the Society for Creative Anachronism, a common part of the game is to construct a "persona tale." It commonly tells the life story of the character you portray, and explains how you got from your home town to a feast or tournament where everybody speaks English.
Most of these persona tales are in prose, but medieval authors often composed in verse, so I have written my tale that way.
In the 14th Century, a verse form called terza rima was particularly popular. Dante used it to write his Divine Comedy, starting in about 1307. The most common version is three-line stanzas of iambic pentameter, with the rhyme scheme of aba, bcb, cdc, ded, etc.
They call me Charles Fleming, and I hail
from Ghent, the largest city anywhere
in Europe. If you've ever hoisted sail
or bought a fancy woolen cloak to wear,
I'll wager they were woven by our Guild
of Weavers. Industry and commerce there
hold all the real power. Though we build
fine castles for our Counts, they look like toys
beside our Guild Halls. Those are filled
with all the wealth of nations and the noise
of portly tradesmen. Though I'm nobly bred,
it buys me little. Frankly, it annoys
me that the Dyers and the Fullers head
militias of their own, while noble knights
must serve in foreign armies for our bread.
I travel with the English, spending nights
beneath the stars and days beneath my helm.
King Edward, the Capetian heir, now fights
against Valois the upstart's overwhelm-
ing forces. He was crowned in Ghent, you know.
Nine years have passed now since the Flemish realm
anointed Edward king of France. But, though
it ended the embargo that the Eng-
lish placed on wool, it also served to sow
the seeds of war against the French. Now king
contends with king. My first true taste of war
was at Sluis. The French were gathering
their forces in a mighty fleet before
invading rebel Flanders, but we caught
them bottled up in port. Our onslaught bore
us ship to ship, a hellish battle fought
across a flaming field of wood. We sent
their ruined vessels steaming to the bot-
tom of the bay. But, sadly, with them went
their armor and their horses; all was lost.
I would not be a trueborn son of Ghent
to see such waste and not abhor the cost.
Not since the Battle of the Spurs was such
a victory, when Flemish forces tossed
the French collaborators out. May Dutch
remain our language ever more! Amen!
...to be continued...