The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's Son Read online

  The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's Son

  John Ronald Ruel Tolkien

  John Ronald Ruel Tolkien

  The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son

  I. Beorhtnoth’s Death

  In August of the year 991, in the reign of Æthelred II, a battle was fought near Maldon in Essex. On the one side was the defence-force of Essex, on the other a viking host that had ravaged Ipswich. The English were commanded by Beorhtnoth son of Beorhthelm, the duke of Essex, a man renowned in his day: powerful, fearless, proud. He was now old and hoar, but vigorous and valiant, and his white head towered high above other men, for he was exceedingly tall[1] , The "Danes"—they were on this occasion probably for the most part Norwegians—were, according to one version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, led by Anlaf, famous in Norse saga and history as Olaf Tryggvason, later to become King of Norway. [2] The Northmen had sailed up the estuary of the Pante, now called the Blackwater, and encamped on Northey Island. The Northmen and the English were thus separated by an arm of the river; tilled by the incoming tide, it could only be crossed by a "bridge" or causeway, difficult to force in the face of a determined defence. [3] The defence was resolute. But the vikings knew, or so it would seem, what manner of a man they had to deal with: they asked for leave to cross the ford, so that a fair fight could be joined. Beorhtnoth accepted the challenge and allowed them to cross. This act of pride and misplaced chivalry proved fatal. Beorhtnoth was slain and the English routed; but the duke's "household", his heorðwerod, containing the picked knights and officers of his bodyguard, some of them members of his own family, fought on, until they all fell dead beside their lord.

  A fragment—a large fragment, 325 lines long—of a contemporary poem has been preserved: it has no end and no beginning, and no title, but is now generally known as The Battle of Maldon. It tells of the demand of the vikings for tribute in return for peace; of Beorhtnoth's proud refusal, and challenge, and the defence of the "bridge"; the cunning request of the vikings, and the crossing of the causeway; the last fight of Beorhtnoth, the falling of his golden-hilted sword from his maimed hand, and the hewing of his body by the heathen men. The end of the fragment, almost half of it, tells of the last stand of the bodyguard. The names, deeds, and speeches of many of the Englishmen are recorded.

  The duke Beorhtnoth was a defender of the monks, and a patron of the church, especially of the abbey of Ely. After the battle the Abbot of Ely obtained his body and buried it in the abbey. His head had been hacked off and was not recovered; it was replaced in the tomb by a ball of wax.

  According to the late, and largely unhistorical, account in the twelfth-century Liber Eliensis the Abbot of Ely went himself with some of his monks to the battlefield. But in the following poem it is supposed that the abbot and his monks came only as far as Mal-don, and that they there remained, sending two men, servants of the duke, to the battlefield some distance away, late in the day after the battle. They took a waggon, and were to bring back Beorhtnoth's body.

  They left the waggon near the end of the causeway and began to search among the slain: very many had fallen on both sides. Torhthelm (colloquially Totta) is a youth, son of a minstrel; his head is full of old lays concerning the heroes of northern antiquity, such as Finn, King of Frisia; Fróda of the Hathobards; Béowulf; and Hengest and Horsa, traditional leaders of the English Vikings in the days of Vortigern (called by the English Wyrtgeorn). Tidwald (in short Tída) was an old ceorl, a farmer who had seen much fighting in the English defence-levies. Neither of these men were actually in the battle. After leaving the waggon they became separated in the gathering dusk. Night falls, dark and clouded. Torhthelm is found alone in a part of the field where the dead lie thick.

  From the old poem are derived the proud words of Offa at a council before the battle, and the name of the gallant young Aelfwine (scion of an ancient noble house in Mercia) whose courage was commended by Offa. There also are found the names of the two Wulfmaers: Wulfmaer, son of Beorhtnoth's sister; and Wulfmaer the young, son of Wulfstan, who together with Aelfnoth fell grievously hewn besides Beorhtnoth. Near the end of the surviving fragment an old retainer, Beorhtwold, as he prepares to die in the last desperate stand, utters the famous words, a summing up of the heroic code, that are here spoken in a dream by Torhthelm:

  Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre,

  mod sceal þe mare þe ure maegen lytlað.

  "Will shall be the sterner, heart the bolder, spirit the greater as our strength lessens."

  It is here implied, as is indeed probable, that these words were not "original," but an ancient and honoured expression of heroic will; Beorhtwold is all the more, not the less, likely for that reason actually to have used them in his last hour.

  The third English voice in the dark, speaking after the Dirige is first heard, uses rhyme: presaging the fading end of the old heroic alliterative measure. The old poem is composed in a free form of the alliterative line, the last surviving fragment of ancient English heroic minstrelsy. In that measure, little if at all freer (though used for dialogue) than the verse of The Battle of Maldon, the present modem poem is written.

  The rhyming lines are an echo of some verses, preserved in the Historia Eliensis, referring to King Canute:

  Merie sungen ðe muneches binnen Ely,

  oa Cnut ching reu ðerby.

  'Roweð, cnites, noer the land

  and here we ther muneches saeng'.

  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 mir
k, 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.

  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.

  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!

  They shuffle along slowly.

  Tor.

  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 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.

  Torhthelm halts suddenly.

  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?