Die Schlacht von Maldon und Die Heimkehr von Beorhtnoth (eBook)

(II) The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son

Halt! What do you want? Hell take you! Speak!

Totta! I know you by your teeth rattling.

Why, Tída, you! The time seemed long

alone among the lost. They lie so queer.

I’ve watched and waited, till the wind sighing

was like words whispered by waking ghosts

that in my ears muttered.

And your eyes fancied

barrow-wights and bogies. It’s a black darkness

since the moon foundered; but mark my words:

not far from here we’ll find the master,

by all accounts.

What ails you now?

Lord save us! Listen!

My lad, you’re crazed.

Your fancies and your fears make foes of nothing.

Help me to heave ’em! It’s heavy labour

to lug them alone: long ones and short ones,

the thick and the thin. Think less, and talk less

of ghosts. Forget your gleeman’s stuff!

Their ghosts are under ground, or else God has them;

and wolves don’t walk as in Woden’s days,

not here in Essex. If any there be,

they’ll be two-legged. There, turn him over!

It’s only an owl.

An ill-boding.

Owls are omens. But I’m not afraid,

not of fancied fears. A fool call me,

but more men than I find the mirk gruesome

among the dead unshrouded. It’s like the dim shadow,

of heathen hell, in the hopeless kingdom

where search is vain. We might seek forever

and yet miss the master in this mirk, Tída.

O lord beloved, where do you lie tonight,

your head so hoar upon a hard pillow,

and your limbs lying in long slumber?

Look here, my lad, where they lie thickest!

Here! Lend a hand! This head we know!

Wulfmær it is. I’ll wager aught

not far did he fall from friend and master.

His sister-son! The songs tell us,

ever near shall be at need nephew to uncle.

Nay, he’s not here – or he’s hewn out of ken.

It was the other I meant, th’ Eastsaxon lad,

Wulfstan’s youngster. It’s a wicked business

to gather them ungrown. A gallant boy, too,

and the makings of a man.

Have mercy on us!

He was younger than I, by a year or more.

Here’s Aelfnoth, too, by his arm lying.

As he would have wished it. In work or play

they were fast fellows, and faithful to their lord,

as close to him as kin.

Curse this lamplight

and my eyes’ dimness! My oath I’ll take

they fell in his defence, and not far away

now master lies. Move them gently!

Brave lads! But it’s bad when bearded men

put shield at back and shun battle,

running like roe-deer, while the red heathen

beat down their boys. May the blast of Heaven

light on the dastards that to death left them

to England’s shame! And here’s Ælfwine:

barely bearded, and his battle’s over.

That’s bad, Totta. He was a brave lordling,

and we need his like: a new weapon

of the old metal. As eager as fire,

and as staunch as steel. Stern-tongued at times,

and outspoken after Offa’s sort.

Offa! He’s silenced. Not all liked him;

many would have muzzled him, had master let them.

»There are cravens at council that crow proudly

with the hearts of hens«: so I hear he said

at the lord’s meeting. As lays remind us:

»What at the mead man vows, when morning comes

let him with deeds answer, or his drink vomit

and a sot be shown.« But the songs wither,

and the world worsens. I wish I’d been here,

not left with the luggage and lazy thralls,

cooks and sutlers! By the Cross, Tída,

I loved him no less than any lord with him;

and a poor freeman may prove in the end

more tough when tested than titled earls

who count back their kin to kings ere Woden.

You can talk, Totta! Your time’ll come,

and it’ll look less easy than lays make it.

Bitter taste has iron, and the bite of swords

is cruel and cold, when you come to it.

Then God guard you, if your glees falter!

When your shield is shivered, between shame and death

is hard choosing. Help me with this one!

There, heave him over – the hound’s carcase,

hulking heathen!

Hide it, Tída!

Put the lantern out! He’s looking at me.

I can’t abide his eyes bleak and evil

as Grendel’s in the moon.

Ay, he’s a grim fellow,

but he’s dead and done-for. Danes don’t trouble me

save with swords and axes. They can smile or glare,

once hell has them. Come, haul the next!

Look! Here’s a limb! A long yard and thick

as three men’s thighs.

I thought as much.

Now bow your head, and hold your babble

for a moment, Totta! It’s the master at last.

Well, here he is – or what Heaven’s left us:

the longest legs in the land, I guess.

His head was higher than the helm of kings

with heathen crowns, his heart keener

and his soul clearer than swords of heroes

polished and proven: than plated gold

his worth was greater. From the world has passed

a prince peerless in peace and war,

just in judgment, generous-handed

as the golden lords of long ago.

He has gone to God glory seeking,

Beorhtnoth beloved.

Brave words my lad!

The woven staves have yet worth in them

for woeful hearts. But here’s work to do,

ere the funeral begins.

I’ve found it, Tída!

Here’s his sword lying! I could swear to it

by the golden hilts.

I’m glad to hear it.

How it was missed is a marvel. He is marred cruelly.

Few tokens else shall we find on him;

they’ve left us little of the Lord we knew.

Ah, woe and worse! The wolvish heathens

have hewn off his head, and the hulk left us

mangled with axes. What a murder it is,

this bloody fighting!

Aye, that’s the battle for you,

and no worse today than wars you sing of,

when Fróda fell, and Finn was slain.

The world wept then, as it weeps today:

you can hear the tears through the harp’s twanging.

Come, bend your back. We must bear away

the cold leavings. Catch hold of the legs!

Now lift – gently! Now lift again!

Dear still shall be this dead body,

though men have marred it.

Now mourn forever

Saxon and English, from the sea’s margin

to the western forest! The wall is fallen,

women are weeping; the wood is blazing

and the fire flaming as a far beacon.

Build high the barrow his bones to keep!

For here shall be hid both helm and sword;

and to the ground be given golden corslet,

and rich raiment and rings gleaming,

wealth unbegrudged for the well-beloved;

of the friends of men first and noblest,

to his hearth-comrades help unfailing,

to his folk the fairest father of peoples.

Glory loved he; now glory earning

his grave shall be green, while ground or sea,

while word or woe in the world lasteth.

Good words enough, gleeman Totta!

You laboured long as you lay, I guess,

in the watches of the night, while the wise slumbered.

But I’d rather have rest, and my rueful thoughts.

These are Christian days, though the cross is heavy;

Beorhtnoth we bear not Béowulf here:

no pyres for him, nor piling of mounds;

and the gold will be given to the good abbot.

Let the monks mourn him and mass be chanted!

With learned Latin they’ll lead him home,

if we can bring him back. The body’s weighty!

Dead men drag earthward. Now down a spell!

My back’s broken,...