Forgotten Ground Regained

Wuffingatæl

("The Tally of the Wuffings")
Also published at wuffings.co.uk
Prologue
Hwæt we ærwilum ‧ Wuffinga þeodena ‧ þrym gefrunon, hu þa wulf-cyningas ‧ weoldon aþeleard ‧ Estengalonde. Hwa mæg segeð ‧ soðe mære on hwilcum beorum ‧ eacenbanas gebidian? Him was on ærfæder ‧ æþelcynnes folces frean ‧ æt frumsceafte se wæs Wuffa haten ‧ wulf wearð heesegn from him Estengla ‧ ealdorcyningas siððan Wuffings ‧ wæron nemnde.
Who of us has heard of the erstwhile heroism of the Wuffing folk-lords of long ago -- of how those wolf-kings wielded the sovereignty of East Anglia's ancestral turf? Who can tell of their true fame or in which barrows their mighty bones sleep? One forefather had hey all, that noble family, founding chief at the folk's beginning. Wuffa was his name -- the wolf was hs war-sign -- from whom the East Anglian elder-kings were thenceforth named Wuffings.
Rædwaldeshrim ("The Reckoning of Rædwald")
Famous was Rædwald, 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 -- be-wed was he to winsome Seaxwyn, East Saxon people's peerless princess. Three royal bairns she bore Rædwald: Ragenhere, Eorpwald, and Rædwyn the fair -- wolf-cubs to further the Wuffing line. As his children waxed beneath the wide skies, wealthy in harvests he grew and wise in winters. Heroes' sons stepped in his steep-roofed hall and saluted him on the high-seat. With golden rings he gathered them and in fealty they followed him, noble shepherd of the North and South Folk.
One mid-summertime Wyrd tested his worth. Sea-borne tidings from southward were brought by golden-browed monks. Famous is Rædwald's reckoning of their rune-bound counsel, enduring the wisdom of the warrior-king: "You bearers of book-lore who have come so far thus to our ancestral East Anglian soil speak fairly -- but we may not yet forsake that elder way which we and all the English folk have ever held fast. But our father's house is firm and high-towered and room there is for your many runes." So roomy-hearted king Rædwald bid welcome to the book-bearers and ordered his woodwrights to work them an altar within his golden-timbered, high-gabled hall and its light thenceforth shone through many lands.
So famed near and far for his wisdom and his foresight, Fate brought it about that he became overloard of all the English ring-lords -- until bold Æþelfrið, Æþelric's son, the batlecrow of Bernicia, spoilt King Rædwald's sovereign peace with the woeful sound of his war-song. Time was to unbind the battle-runes and unfurled was he wolf-flag, the war-vanes of the Wuffings. The runes were right, the hearth-troop ready, so farewell he bade to his bower-queen, to his hallowed hearth and high-seat, and forth went Rædwald, to face fate's decree, Æþeling Ragenhere beside him, eager under his helm. Behind him followed the flower of the folk-host, limewood shields roundly shining, mail-shirts ringing as they marched out singing the war-song of the Wuffings.
Until, faring ahead to the far Idle-ford, princeling Ragenhere and his proud war-band waded the waterway, not waiting for his father. Of his error he learned all too late as the raven-cry on the river bank signalled Æþelfrið's sudden attack. The old war-crow swooped on the wolf-cub, swinging so hard his great slaughter-sword that its bitter edge clove the boy's brow and Ragenhere fell -- the river ran red as the æþeling's eager life ebbed out with the tide. The lord of the Northlands laughed aloud, brandishing aloft his blood-drinking blade, the battle-crow delighting in his foe's defeat; his dark-coated fighters flocked nd dinned, while the ravens claimed a royal feast.
Then the main host of the Wuffing men reached the Idle river-ford all too late to lessen the loss. Fate's seal was now set fast -- appalled but resolute, Rædwald advanced, bidding his men forward acros the ford. The war-wolves waded in woe-whetted boldness, now sounding a dreadful slaghter-song. Warriors let free their grim-grounded weapons, exchanging shield-shuddering strokes -- bitter was that battle-clash. Facing death by the ford, fated ones fell in the weapons' storm, while ohers stood steadfast, as English blood blackened the Idle's tide.
Then Æþelfrið, frustrated all day in plans to pitch back his foe -- until that day unbeaten in battle-craft -- overbold, thought he saw his opening, thought he saw the Wuffings waver, and forward rushed, ferocity renewed. But bettered he was by a wiser battle-smith, for right in his path stood Rædwald all ready and waiting his opportunity to avenge. There the Wuffing king swung his war-sword the choicest of weapons, the warrior's pride, over the shaft-heavy linden-shield so that its hard edge sang on Æþelfrið's helm. Blood burst bright over his eyes, yet in battle-frenzy still he fought, bludgeoning with his slaughter-blade so viciously washed in royal blood. It was Rædwald's cunningly wrought ring-mail, mighty Weland's work, that warded him from wounds, withstood penetration from point and edge. Then Wuffa's heir again swung his war-sword -- supercharged steel bit battle-steep boar-helm and the fatal stroke felled the lord of the Northfolk.
The war-vane signalled the victory-runes, beacon-lights broadcast the tidings of triumph: songs were sung celebrating the wolf-soldiers and lamenting the lost ones. 'Twas with no bargain that the victory was bought, the price being bitter with the princeling's fall, the flower of the Wuffings, wasted ere he'd wed. Rædwald had settled with his sword's edge the deadly score with his son's scather.
Then the king turned back to his ancestral turf, to his blylth burgh and bower-garden. Rædwald's peace was renewed again, and sound and sage in wielding his sovereignty, long did he rule, that roomy-hearted king.
Then, full of days at the fated season, white-haired and winter-wise, he bravely bade his final farewells to his bairns and bower-queen; and in loyal heart let go his loaned life-days. Grief sounded beneath golden rafters and household banners hung low as the sad-hearted sea-wolves carried carefully teir dear king down to his boathouse as he himself had bidden. At the royal berth, with bows beringed, lay his flagship, the heroes' ferry. Tearfully they laid him down, their beloved folk-lord, in majesty by the mast, amid tremendous treasures, a fortune fetched from far and near. Wondrous was the cargo that keel bore -- by his shimmering soulder-mounts lay his gem-hilted, hard-edged battle-blade, Æþelfrið's bane, jewelled work of wonder-smiths. Thus among his crown-jewels amidships Lord Rædwald lay in state. Though mighty was the mournfullness of the faithful Wuffing folk, they were grateful in their grieving for the richness and right of King Rædwald's golden reign.
Embarked now on the ebb of the autumn-tide, aboard his leaf-wood, loyal longship, on its last and longest voyage across dark waters no mortal wit can fathom bound for amber shores of eternal peace.
Copyright © Sam Newton, 1990