The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's Son

II. The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's Son

The sound is heard of a man moving uncertainly and breathing noisily in the darkness. Suddenly a voice speaks, loudly and sharply.

Torhthelm.

Halt! What do you want? Hell take you!

Speak!

Tídwald.

Totta! I know you by your teeth rattling.

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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.

Tídwald lets out a faint beam from a dark-lantern. An owl hoots. A dark shape flits through the beam of light. Torhthelm starts back and overturns the lantern, which Tída had set on the ground.

What ails you now?

Tor.

Lord save us! Listen!

Tíd.

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!

An owl hoots again.

It's only an owl.

Tor.

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 for ever

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?

Tidwald lets out again the light of the dark-lantern.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

His sister-son! The songs tell us,

ever near shall be at need nephew to uncle.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

Have mercy on us!

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

Tíd.

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

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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!

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

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

many would have muzzled him, had master let hem.

"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.

Tíd.

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!

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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!

Tor.

Look! Here's a limb! A long yard, and thick

as three men's thighs.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

(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 judgment, generous-handed

as the golden lords of long ago.

He has gone to God glory seeking,

Beorhtnoth beloved.

Tíd.

Brave words my lad!

The woven stars have yet worth in them

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

ere the funeral begins.

Tor.

I've found it, Tída!

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

by the golden hilts.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

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!

Tíd.

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!

Tor.

Dear still shall be this dead body,

though men have marred it.

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 naming 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.

Tíd.

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!

Tor.

Dead men drag earthward. Now down a spell!

My back's broken, and the breath has left me.

Tíd.

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.

You stumbling dolt,

Look where you're going!

Tor.

For the Lord's pity,

halt, Tída, here! Hark now, and look!

Tíd.

Look where, my lad?

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

Nameless nightshades—naught else can I see,

till they walk nearer. You're witch-sighted

to tell fiends from men in this foul darkness.

Tor.

Then listen, Tída! There are low voices,

moans and muttering, and mumbled laughter.

They are moving hither!

Tíd.

Yes, I mark it now,

I can hear something.

Tor.

Hide the lantern!

Tíd.

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 Tidwald 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.

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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 their sorrow

of hell's children. These are hungry folk

and masterless men, miserable skulkers.

They're corpse-strippers: a cursed game

and shame to think of. What are you shuddering at?

Tor.

Come on now quick! Christ forgive me,

and these evil days, when unregretted

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!

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

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.

Tíd.

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.

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.

Tor.

(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.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

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!

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

But Æthelred'll prove less easy prey

than Wyrtgeom was; and I'll wager, too,

this Anlaf of Norway will never equal

Hengest or Horsa!

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

It should be clean linen

not a dirty blanket.

Tíd.

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.

Tor.

God guide our road to a good ending!

How these wheels do whine! They'll hear

the creak for miles away over mire and stone.

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?

Tíd.

I'm tired of talk. My tongue's resting.

"Where first" you say? A fool's question!

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.

Tor.

You're a brute, Tída.

Tíd.

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

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.

Tor.

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.

It's dark! It's dark, and doom coming!

Is no light left us? A light kindle,

and fan the flame! Lo! Fire now wakens,

hearth is burning, house is lighted,

men there gather. Out of the mists they come

through darkling doors whereat doom waiteth.

Hark! I hear them in the hall chanting:

stern words they sing with strong voices.

(He chants) Heart shall be bolder, harder be purpose,

more proud the spirit as our power lessens!

Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,

though doom shall come and dark conquer.

Hey! what a bump, Tída! My bones are shaken,

and my dream shattered. It's dark and cold.

Tíd.

Aye, a bump on the bone is bad for dreams,

and it's cold waking. But your words are queer,

Torhthelm my lad, with your talk of wind

and doom conquering and a dark ending.

It sounded fey and fell-hearted,

and heathenish, too: I don't hold with that.

It's night right enough; but there's no firelight:

dark is over all, and dead is master.

When morning comes, it'll be much like others:

more labour and loss till the land's ruined;

ever work and war till the world passes.

Hey! rattle and bump over rut and boulder!

The roads are rough and rest is short

for English men in Æthelred's day.

The rumbling of the cart dies away. There is complete silence for a while. Slowly the sound of voices chanting begins to be heard. Soon the words, though faint, can be distinguished.

Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.

Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo ad templum

Sanctum tuum in timore tuo.

(A Voice in the dark):

Sadly they sing, the monks of Ely isle!

Row men, row! Let us listen here a while!

The chanting becomes loud and clear. Monks bearing a bier amid tapers pass across the scene.

Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.

Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo ad templum

sanctum tuum in timore tuo.

Domine, deduc me in isutitia tua: propter

inimicos meos dirige in conspectu tuo viam meam.

Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto: sicut

erat in principio et nunc et semper et in

saecula saeculorum.

Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.

They pass, and the chanting fades into silence.