HRĘDWALDESHRIM [The Reckoning of Rędwald]

© Sam Newton 1989

Famous was Rędwald,    Tyttla’s renowned son,

excellent among     English kings;

through wisdom     and through war-speed

he held to     his high-born destiny.

On the first day of May   was his marriage-feast;

wedded was he     to winsome Seaxwyn,

East Saxon people’s     peerless princess.

Three royal bairns     she bore Rędwald:

Ręgenhere, Eorpwald,     and Rędwyn the fair -

wolf-cubs to further     the line of the Wuffings.

As his children waxed     beneath the wide skies

he grew wealthy in harvests and wise in winters.

Heroes’ sons stepped     in his steep-roofed hall,

and saluted him     on his high-seat.

With golden rings     he gathered them

and in fealty     they followed him,

noble shepherd     of North and South folk.

One mid-summertime    was his worth tested –

sea-borne tidings     came from southward

brought by     gold-browed monks.

Famous is Rędwald’s     reckoning

of their rune-bound     book lore,

enduring the wisdom     of the warrior-king:

“You bearers     of book-lore 

who have fared     so far thus 

to our ancestral     Anglian turf 

speak fairly,     but we cannot forsake 

that elder way     that we and all 

our folk have     ever held fast.

But our fathers’ house     is high and broad

and room there is     for all your runes.”

So roomy-hearted     King Rędwald

bid welcome     the book-bearers

and bid his wood-wrights     work them an altar

within his high- gabled     gold-timbered hall

and its light shone thence    through many lands.

Famed far and near     for wisdom and foresight,

fate brought it about     that he became

Overlord of all     in the island of Britain

when fierce Ęželfriš,     Ęželric’s son,

battle-crow     of Bernicia

spoilt King Rędwald’s     sovereign peace

with woeful sound,    his war-song.

Time was to unbind     the battle-runes,

so unfurled was     the wolf-flag,

war-vane     of the Wuffings.

The runes were right     the house-troop ready;

so farewell he bade     to his bower-queen,

to his hallowed hearth     and high-seat.

Forth went Rędwald,     to face fate’s decree.

Ęželing Ręgenhere also,     eager under helm.

Behind followed     the flower of the folk-host,

linden-wood shields     roundly shining,

mail-shirts ringing     as they marched out,

warriors singing     the Wuffing war-song.

Until, faring ahead     to the far Idle-ford,

ęželing Ręgenhere     and his eager war-band

waded the waterway,   waiting not for his father.

Of his error he learnt     all too late,

as the raven’s cry     on the river bank

signalled Ęželfriš’s     sudden attack.

The old war-crow     swooped on the wolf-cub,

swinging so hard     his slaughter sword

that its bitter edge     clove the boy’s brow;

Ręgenhere fell,     and the river ran red

as the ęželing’s life     ebbed away with the tide.

The lord of the North     laughed aloud,

brandishing aloft     his blood-drinking blade,

the battle-crow delighting     in his foe’s defeat;

his dark-coated fighters     flocked and dinned,

as the ravens     claimed a royal feast.

Then the main force     of the Wuffing folk-host

reached the Idle     river-ford,

all too late     to lessen the loss.

Fate’s seal was     now set fast;

appalled but resolute,     Rędwald advanced,

let slip his war-wolves     in woe-whetted mood.

Warriors let free     grim-ground weapons,

and shuddering shields     answered shafts.

Front-lines crashed     and fated ones fell

in weapon’s storm,     while others stood steady.

Bitter was     that battle-clash,

as bright English blood     blackened Idle waters.

Then Ęželfriš,     over-eager,

thought he saw     the Wuffing throng waver

and forward rushed     ferocity renewed;

but bettered he was     by a wise war-smith,

and right in his path     stood ready Rędwald,

awaiting his chance     to avenge his loss.

The Wuffing king     swung his war-sword,

best of weapons,   bejewelled by wonder-smiths,

over the shaft-heavy     shield of his foe

so that its hard edge     sang on Ęželfriš’s helm.

Blood sprang out     bright under battle-mask,

yet in war-frenzy     he fought on

bludgeoning     with slaughter-blade

recently washed     in Wuffing blood. 

Rędwald’s cunningly     wrought ringmail,

elf-lord Weland’s     wondrous work,

warded him     from the worst of wounds,

for it withstood penetration from point and edge.

Wuffa’s heir swung     again his war-sword -

supercharged blade     bit battle-steep boar-helm,

and the fatal stroke   felled the lord of the North.

The war-vane signalled     the victory-runes

and beacon lights     broadcast

the tidings     of triumph.

Songs were sung     in celebration

and laments too     for those lost ones.

Bitter was the battle     that brought the victory,

the prince’s fall     was too heavy a price,

the flower of the Wuffings wasted ere he’d wed.

With his sword’s edge     Rędwald had settled

the deadly score     with his son’s scather.

So the king returned     to his ancestral turf,

to his blithe burgh     and bower garden;

Rędwald’s wide peace     was renewed again.

Sound and sage     in wielding sovereignty,

well he ruled peoples    that roomy-hearted king.

Until, full of days,     at the fated season,

white haired     and winter-wise,

he bade     bravely

his final     farewells

to his bairns     and his bower-queen.

Loyally he let go     his loaned life.

Grief sounded     beneath golden rafters

and household     flags hung low.

Sad-hearted     sea-wolves

carried their king     out with care

down to his boathouse    as he himself had bidden.

At the royal berth,     with bows beringed,

lay his flagship,     the hero’s ferry.

Aboard they laid     their beloved lord

in great majesty     by the mast,

with tremendous     folk-treasures,

a fortune fetched     from far and near.

Wondrous was the cargo     that keel carried:

by his shimmering     shoulder-mounts

lay his gem-hilted     hard edged

battle-blade,     Ęželfriš’s bane,

bejewelled work     of wonder-smiths.

Among crown     jewels amidships

Lord Rędwald     lay in state.

Mighty was     the mourning

of the faithful     Wuffing folk,

yet they were grateful     in their grieving

for the richness    and rightness

of King Rędwald’s     golden reign.

Embarked now     on the ebbing autumn-tide

aboard his leaf-wood    loyal longship

sailing its last     and longest voyage

across dark waters     no mortal wit can fathom

bound for amber shores     of eternal peace.

© Sam Newton 1989

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