now master lies. Move them gently!
TORHTHELM.
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.
TÍDWALD.
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.
TORHTHELM.
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 lords’ 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 the 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.
TÍDWALD.
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!
TORHTHELM.
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.
TÍDWALD.
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!
TORHTHELM.
Look! Here’s a limb! A long yard, and thick
as three men’s thighs.
TÍDWALD.
I thought as much.
Now bow your head, and hold your babble
for a moment Totta! It’s the master at last.
There is silence for a short while.
Well, here he is – or what Heaven’s left us:
the longest legs in the land, I guess.
TORHTHELM.
(His voice rises to a chant.)
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 judgement, generous-handed
as the golden lords of long ago.
He has gone to God glory seeking,
Beorhtnoth beloved.
TÍDWALD.
Brave words, my lad!
The woven staves have yet worth in them
for woeful hearts. But there’s work to do,
ere the funeral begins.
TORHTHELM.
I’ve found it, Tída!
Here’s his sword lying! I could swear to it
by the golden hilts.
TÍDWALD.
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.
TORHTHELM.
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!
TÍDWALD.
Aye, that’s 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!
They shuffle along slowly.
TORHTHELM.
Dear still shall be this dead body,
though men have marred it.
Torhthelm’s voice rises again to a chant.
Now mourn for ever
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.
TÍDWALD.
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!
TORHTHELM.
Dead men drag earthward. Now down a spell!
My back’s broken, and the breath has left me.
TÍDWALD.
If you spent less in speech, you would speed better.
But the cart’s not far, so keep at it!
Now start again, and in step with me!
A steady pace does it.
Torhthelm halts suddenly.
You stumbling dolt,
Look where you’re going!
TORHTHELM.
For the Lord’s pity,
halt, Tída, here! Hark now, and look!
TÍDWALD.
Look where, my lad?
TORHTHELM.
To the left yonder.
There’s a shade creeping, a shadow darker
than the western sky, there walking crouched!
Two now together! Troll-shapes, I guess,
or hell-walkers. They’ve a halting gait,
groping groundwards with grisly arms.
TÍDWALD.
Nameless nightshades – naught else can I see,
till they walk nearer. You’re witch-sighted
to tell fiends from men in this foul darkness.
TORHTHELM.
Then listen, Tída! There are low voices,
moans and muttering, and mumbled laughter.
They are moving hither!
TÍDWALD.
Yes, I mark it now,
I can hear something.
TORHTHELM.
Hide the lantern!
TÍDWALD.
Lay down the body and lie by it!
Now stone-silent! There are steps coming.
They crouch on the ground. The sound of stealthy steps grows louder and nearer. When they are close at hand Tídwald suddenly shouts out:
Hullo there, my lads! You’re late comers,
if it’s fighting you look for; but I can find you some,
if you need it tonight. You’ll get nothing cheaper.
There is a noise of scuffling in the dark. Then there is a shriek. Torhthelm’s voice rings out shrill.
TORHTHELM.
You snuffling swine, I’ll slit you for it!
Take your trove then! Ho! Tída there!
I’ve slain this one. He’ll slink no more.
If swords he was seeking, he soon found one,
by the biting end.
TÍDWALD.
My bogey-slayer!
Bold heart would you borrow with Beorhtnoth’s sword?
Nay, wipe it clean! And keep your wits!
That blade was made for better uses.
You wanted no weapon: a wallop on the nose,
or a boot behind, and the battle’s over
with the likes of these. Their life’s wretched,
but why kill the creatures, or crow about it?
There are dead enough around. Were he a Dane, mind you,
I’d let you boast – and there’s lots abroad
not far away, the filthy thieves:
I hate ’em, by my heart, heathen or sprinkled,
the Devil’s offspring.
TORHTHELM.
The Danes, you say!
Make haste! Let’s go! I’d half forgotten.
There may be more at hand our murder plotting.
We’ll have the pirate pack come pouring on us,
if they hear us brawling.
TÍDWALD.
My brave swordsman!
These weren’t Northmen! Why should Northmen come?
They’ve had their fill of hewing and fighting,
and picked their plunder: the place is bare.
They’re in Ipswich now with the ale running,
or lying off London in their long vessels,
while they drink to Thor and drown the sorrow
of hell’s children. These are hungry folk
and masterless men, miserable skulkers.
They’re corpse-strippers: a curséd game
and shame to think of. What are you shuddering at?
TORHTHELM.
Come on now quick! Christ forgive me,
and these evil days, when unregretted
men lie mouldering, and the manner of wolves
the folk follow in fear and hunger,
their dead unpitying to drag and plunder!
Look there yonder! There’s a lean shadow,
a third of the thieves. Let’s thrash the villain!
TÍDWALD.
Nay, let him alone! Or we’ll lose the way.
As it is we’ve wandered, and I’m bewildered enough.
He won’t try attacking two men by himself.
Lift your end there! Lift up, I say.
Put your foot forward.
TORHTHELM.
Can you find it, Tída;
I haven’t a notion now in these nightshadows
where we left the waggon. I wish we were back!
They shuffle along without speaking for a while.
Walk wary, man! There’s water by us;
you’ll blunder over the brink. Here’s the Blackwater!
Another step that way, and in the stream we’d be
like fools floundering – and the flood’s running.
TÍDWALD.
We’ve come to the causeway. The cart’s near it,
so courage, my boy. If we can carry him on
few steps further, the first stage is passed.
They move a few paces more.
By Edmund’s head! though his own’s missing,
our lord’s not light. Now lay him down!
Here’s the waggon waiting. I wish we could drink
his funeral ale without further trouble
on the bank right here. The beer he gave
was good and plenty to gladden your heart,
both strong and brown. I’m in a stew of sweat.
Let’s stay a moment.
TORHTHELM.
(After a pause.) It’s strange to me
how they came across this causeway here,
or forced a passage without fierce battle;
but there are few tokens to tell of fighting.
A hill of heathens one would hope to find,
but none lie near.
TÍDWALD.
No, more’s the pity.
Alas, my friend, our lord was at fault,
or so in Maldon this morning men were saying.
Too proud, too princely! But his pride’s cheated,
and his princedom has passed, so we’ll praise his valour.
He let them cross the causeway, so keen was he
to give minstrels matter for mighty songs.
Needlessly noble. It should never have been:
bidding bows be still, and the bridge opening,
matching more with few in mad handstrokes!
Well, doom he dared, and died for it.
So the last is fallen of the line of earls,
from Saxon lords long-descended
who sailed the seas, as songs tell us,
from Angel in the East, with eager swords
upon war’s anvil the Welsh smiting.
Realms here they won and royal kingdoms,
and in olden days this isle conquered.
And now from the North need comes again:
wild blows the wind of war to Britain!
TÍDWALD.
And in the neck we catch it, and are nipped as chill
as poor men were then. Let the poets babble,
but perish all pirates! When the poor are robbed
and lose the land they loved and toiled on,
they must die and dung it. No dirge for them,
and their wives and children work in serfdom.
TORHTHELM.
But Æthelred’ll prove less easy prey
than Wyrtgeorn was; and I’ll wager, too,
this Anlaf of Norway will never equal
Hengest or Horsa!
TÍDWALD.
We’ll hope not, lad!
Come, lend your hand to the lifting again,
then your task is done. There, turn him round!
Hold the shanks now, while I heave the shoulders.
Now, up your end! Up! That’s finished.
There cover him with the cloth.
TORHTHELM.
It should be clean linen
not a dirty blanket.
TÍDWALD.
It must do for now.
The monks are waiting in Maldon for us,
and the abbot with them. We’re hours behind.
Get up now and in! Your eyes can weep,
or your mouth can pray. I’ll mind the horses.
Gee up, boys, then. (He cracks a whip.) Gee up, and away!
TORHTHELM.
God guide our road to a good ending!
There is a pause, in which a rumbling and a creaking of wheels is heard.
How these wheels do whine! They’ll hear the creak
for miles away over mire and stone.
A longer pause in which no word is spoken.
Where first do we make for? Have we far to go?
The night is passing, and I’m near finished …
Say, Tída, Tída! is your tongue stricken?
TÍDWALD.
I’m tired of talk. My tongue’s resting.
‘Where first’ you say? A fool’s question!
&n
bsp; To Maldon and the monks, and then miles onward
to Ely and the abbey. It’ll end sometime;
but the roads are bad in these ruinous days.
No rest for you yet! Were you reckoning on bed?
The best you’ll get is the bottom of the cart
with his body for bolster.
TORHTHELM.
You’re a brute, Tída.
TÍDWALD.
It’s only plain language. If a poet sang you:
‘I bowed my head on his breast beloved,
and weary of weeping woeful slept I;
thus joined we journeyed, gentle master
and faithful servant, over fen and boulder
to his last resting and love’s ending’,
you’d not call it cruel. I have cares of my own
in my heart, Totta, and my head’s weary.
I am sorry for you, and for myself also.
Sleep, lad, then! Sleep! The slain won’t trouble,
if your head be heavy, or the wheels grumble.
He speaks to the horses.
Gee up, my boys! And on you go!
There’s food ahead and fair stables,
for the monks are kind. Put the miles behind!
The creaking and rattling of the waggon, and the sound of hoofs, continue for some time, during which no words are spoken. After a while lights glimmer in the distance. Torhthelm speaks from the waggon, drowsily and half dreaming.
TORHTHELM.
There are candles in the dark and cold voices.
I hear mass chanted for master’s soul
in Ely isle. Thus ages pass,
and men after men. Mourning voices
of women weeping. So the world passes;
day follows day, and the dust gathers,
his tomb crumbles, as time gnaws it,
and his kith and kindred out of ken dwindle.
So men flicker and in the mirk go out.
The world withers and the wind rises;
the candles are quenched. Cold falls the night.
The lights disappear as he speaks. Torhthelm’s voice becomes louder, but it is still the voice of one speaking in a dream.