Until a few months ago, Michael Shepard was the grandest and most honorable knight in the northwestern suburbs of Chicago, his dark hair flapping behind him as he roared into battle, steed tearing up the earth, the tangled tendrils of his stringy locks moist with sweat and urgency. Indeed, kind sirs, fair maidens, bow your heads! For more than 20 years, Sir Mike had been a knight at Medieval Times — for the last six he was head knight, who lorded over all knights, who had to reorder jousting lances from Texas, who rarely had a Friday or Saturday off (or a even a holiday), who made up the schedule for the other knights, and decided who won and lost tournaments.
Oh, yes … it’s fixed!
And, oh, yes, how Sir Mike traveled a winding and thrilling road to immortality! ‘Tis worthy of Chaucer, this tale! For his journey carried him from a castle outside the magical realm of Anaheim, Calif., to, 17 years ago, a castle in the glorious land of Schaumburg, just off Interstate Highway 90, within harking distance of Ikea. He departed briefly, for a castle in the troubled kingdom of New Jersey. He was gone two long years before returning to Schaumburg, where he now keeps his hearth. A long path, Sir Mike rode. It began at 16, as a squire. But 22 years later, at 39, he was feeling creakier, tired.
And so last spring, Sir Mike decided to step down.
To be sales manager.
The day I visited him in his office at the Schaumburg castle, however, he had not quite unpacked for his new adventure. His small, cheerless office contained: folders, paperwork, a bulletin board, a cabinet, a metal desk, a bookcase lined with pictures from his decades as a knight, a picture of himself at 18, looking scared and mullet-heavy. He also kept two large swords, which he had not gotten around to hanging yet.
I got the impression that Sir Mike was not entirely comfortable with an office job — not after years of riding a horse every day, miming his way through brutal 11th century overthrows. He said he didn’t miss it, but as we left the office and walked into the arena where new knights were training, he appeared sunken, quieter.
“He misses it, you know, and you can tell,” said Marla Hart, Medieval Times local marketing manager. “Just look at him.”
On the sidelines
Yes, look at him.
Though it has been a few months since he was head knight, it’s hard to imagine Sir Mike leaping from a horse, charging across sand surrounded by a crowd of 1,450 (on a good night) waving chicken legs in salute, banging their pewter cups, the brassy music erupting. He’s a big guy with a cropped cut and a goatee, and while not fat, he’s not small — no longer the sort of guy anyone would call in to defend a kingdom. He said he works out less these days.
“Physically? I was in my prime at 31,” Sir Mike explained. “From a show perspective, it wasn’t a noticeable decline. You know what it was? It was that I found myself having to dig deeper to summon the energy for each new fight. I was keeping up, even at 37, at 38. But I would get winded, my back ached a little more. I mean, I got to admit it, I miss it. I do. But I’m happier now.”
The Dennis Quaid of medieval sport, he has become.
He walked down the arena steps, to what the knights call “the sand,” the oblong-shaped ring, surrounded by rows of seats, that serves as their playing field and stage. A knight in a Cubs jersey was talking with a knight in a White Sox jersey. Both wore matching spangly tights. A pair of lowly squires carried a bundle of javelins, most of which had been splintered at the last show but bound back together for jousting practice that week.
Sir Mike watched and began to talk.
He was not born into the knighthood. He was born in Lansing, Mich., and spent his teens in Southern California. Some knights come to Medieval Times through an ad in the newspaper. Some audition. Sir Mike was hired with no intention of becoming a knight. He was a poop shoveler, stable boy, a peon.
“I was a squire for a little more than a year, but I became a knight on my 18th birthday. You have to be 18. I was still a senior in high school. Early on, I couldn’t concentrate. I would watch these guys do stunts on horseback and assume they had been riding their entire lives or had a stunt background. Then this gentleman from Spain came in to train us. I was skinnier, 165 pounds, but he could see, as young and green as I was, I was going to be a knight.”
Kingdom’s roots in Spain
Sir Mike has been with the company so long now that when he joined Medieval Times, the franchise had been in North America only a few years. It began as a family business a decade earlier, in 1973, on the Spanish island of Majorca, and was brought to the United States by investors in 1983. The first castle was in Kissimmee, Fla.
Tim Baker grew up in Kissimmee. He was studying to be a general contractor in 1983. He would pass the castle as it was being built and daydream, remembering “Ivanhoe” and the tales of Conan the Barbarian.
“So I walked in,” he said, “and I’ve never walked out.”
Today, he is director of choreography; he plans the fights and stunts for each of Medieval Times Entertainment Inc.’s nine castles in the U.S. (There are none left in Europe.) More important, however, Baker is also head head knight — “corporate head knight” is what other knights call him — the knight responsible for all 160 knights, companywide.
In the early days of Medieval Times in the U.S., he explained, the Spanish knights spent a while in Florida training their clueless American brethren, although neither camp spoke the other’s language. Their visas running out, the Spanish knights left, and it would take eight months before the first American castle could do a complete show.
Today Medieval Times is a quasi-theatrical experience, with a story (set in 11th century Spain), a jousting tournament, some sword fighting, a falcon-flying demonstration, a parade of Andalusian horses and a chicken dinner, served to the audience at their seats. The Schaumburg castle was built in 1991, “and in terms of consistency, it’s still our best castle,” Baker said. “Which is a testament to Mike’s hard work.”
Sir Mike took the job so seriously, and trained his knights so rigorously, that after a while, when he was filling out his W-2 form, under “occupation” he began writing “knight.”
He did not, however, take the job as seriously as Robert Idrizi, 28, whom he groomed to replace him as head knight. Sir Robert is an intimidating soul, with an intense stare and the kind of long mane of hair associated with renaissance fairs. (The company prefers its knights to have long hair.)
The day Mike and I watched practice, one of the horses, Blaze, had gas. Blaze would race across the sand, his knight aiming him at an opposing jouster. Then the animal would break wind. This happened repeatedly, but Sir Robert’s expression remained stony and cold. “Blaze has gas,” he would say squarely, to no one, in his booming baritone. “Or was that Paul?”
Sprint, thrust the lance, fall
They practiced their jousting because the evening before, a knight missed the opposing knight’s shield completely. “That’s the absolute worst thing that can happen,” Sir Robert said. “Lights are going, music is going, and when you miss there is no way to cover it up. That’s where we look really stupid.”
A rider passed.
“Keep that elbow up, Sully,” Sir Robert said to Sir Sully. Then to Sir Tim: “And Tim, be aggressive. Remember to move that shield forward right before the hit.” Then to Sir Paul: “Paul, keep that horse on the rail — you’re like three feet off the rail!”
“My foot hit the rail!” Sir Paul replied, the only time I heard Sir Robert challenged.
“Yeah, but by the time you reached the other shield you were like three feet off the rail. That wasn’t too good.”
The caste system at Medieval Times works like this: You begin as a squire (making slightly more than minimum wage). There are “squites” — squires on the cusp of becoming knights. Then there are knights; each castle has nine, and because the show is the same at every castle, Medieval Times flies them around the country if a castle is short.
Then come head knights. Sir Robert is a typical knight: He is between 5 feet 9 inches tall and 150 pounds and 6 feet 4 inches tall and 250 pounds. He is young and fairly athletic. And because jousting and sword fighting and throwing yourself from a horse are not high school varsity sports, he had no experience before he started. “I stumbled on a dream I never knew I had,” he said. He grew up in Lake County. “I never played with swords as a kid, or even touched a horse, let alone rode one before I came here.”
Indeed, many of these guys had never been on a horse until working at Medieval Times. Some had acting experience, some amusement park stunt-show experience. Sir Mike said the show is so choreographed, the moves so specific, the company prefers to hire knights without riding experience — they don’t have any bad habits to break.
“Everything you do in the show has to feel second nature, because it’s hard,” Sir Robert said. “Just to joust you have to be able to hold reins with two fingers while holding the lance with one arm. The lance is 10 feet long. You have to line up the horse correctly with the approaching knight. You have to hold your shield at the right height and strike their shield at the right spot. Then you have to fall. And you do it in one motion.”
Sir Robert started seven years ago. The average knight lasts five.
“Guys know to get out before they start losing their fire,” said Scott Madden, 30, a knight who started the same day as Sir Robert. “You have to love it, because it does become a lifestyle. Between the shows and training, schedules can get so crazy some of us sleep here between shows. A number of us don’t really even have friends outside the castle anymore.”
That’s what Sir Mike wanted back: his life. At 5:30 p.m., a couple of hours before showtime, he clasped his hands over the wooden edge of the ring and announced he was going home, something, for two decades, he could rarely say. He turned and walked back through the arena and out a side door.
It opened onto a field and horse stables and, beyond that, highway. Sir Mike’s steed is no longer Spanish, but Detroitish, a Chevy Equinox. ‘Tis a foolish knight who would give his kingdom for a horse. A free Saturday, perhaps. But a horse, no chance.
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Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament
So you want to go to Medieval Times but you’re ashamed, sheepish? You’ve been eyeing that large castle along I-90 for years and always shrugged it off as cornball, something to put off for later? Well, we have thrown ourselves on this medieval sword to learn the truth — about the cost, the meal, the men in tights.
No. 1: Is it expensive? ‘Tis not cheap, m’ lord. Tickets are $60 for adults, $35 for kids — more if you want a tour of the stables. A promotion through Dec. 30 offers free admission for children ages 12 and younger. (Also try Googling “Medieval Times coupon” for discounts.)
No. 2: But is it worth it? Sort of, yes. Surprisingly. But make a night of it. Arrive an hour before showtime. Have a drink at the castle bar. Watch the crowning ceremony. Browse the gift shop. Get a picture taken with the wizard. Settle in for the show. A hearty dinner is included.
No. 3: How hearty? Hearty and, by the way, not bad, either. Better than the food we’ve eaten at most weddings. We’re not fans of chicken (there is a veggie option), but we enjoyed the chunk of roasted pheasant dropped on our pewter plate by the serving wench. (Which, in keeping with medieval times, is what you call your waitresses — try it!) You get a huge potato, garlic bread, a single BBQ rib, a cup of tomato bisque, and a small dessert. And, no, it’s not a serving mistake — no utensils will be provided.
No. 4: How is the show? About two hours. Children will be in awe of the lights and the sword fighting, which is admittedly furious. But we went on a Saturday night and the show felt a little padded — a bit repetitive on the marching horse and soaring falcon front — though charming. The cast, which extends to servers and folks in the box office (“Your credit card receipt, m’ lord”), keeps an admirably straight face throughout.
No. 5: OK, I want to go. Medieval Times is at 2001 N. Roselle Road, Schaumburg; just look for the enormous castle off of I-90. Contact 888-935-6878 or medievaltimes.com. Be aware the holidays are one of Medieval Times’ busiest periods. (Yes, it’s not just a summer thing.) Shows are mostly on weekends and Thursdays.
— Christopher Borrelli
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cborrelli@tribune.com
