Stories submitted by: The Order Archive - Brother Shaw

Editor’s Note: The following account has been preserved from the Order’s archives. Some minor adjustments to wording have been made for modern readability, but the spirit and substance of the original telling remain unchanged.

They say Blackheath was born royal. Truth is, it was born in a riverside wager. And I was the man who made it pay.

Greenwich, 1608. The king’s Scots had brought their game south, chasing feathered balls across the heath above the palace. No clubhouses, no taverns worth the name, just wind and whispers. I saw the gap. A round without a gathering is only half played.

One day, a courtier and a merchant squared off for a match that could buy a ship. The stakes were heavy, the pride heavier. I leaned in and said, “Gentlemen, let’s sweeten it. Loser buys ale for every man who watches.” They laughed, agreed, and the crowd swelled like the tide.

The first hole was a storm of silk and curses. The courtier swung like a poet, graceful but weak. The merchant hacked like a butcher, ugly but strong. By the sixth, the courtier was two up, and the merchant’s face was dark as the Thames at midnight.

At the twelfth, the wind turned traitor. The courtier’s ball sailed into a hollow, and the merchant roared like a cannon when his shot kissed the green. The wager was alive, and so was the crowd.

The last hole was tied. The courtier bent low, feathered ball trembling on the grass. He struck. Short. A gasp ran through the heath. The merchant stepped up, sweat shining, and swung. The ball rolled, kissed the lip, and dropped. The crowd erupted.

The merchant paid, grumbling like a storm, and I poured the ale. But the real prize was mine. A quiet word, a quiet favor, and from that day, every man who played Blackheath knew where to finish his round.

I never swung like a king, lads. But I ruled the rooms. And if you doubt me, ask the men who still drink by the river when the wind blows in from the heath.