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.