The Battle of Brunanburh 937 A.D. Here Æþelstan, eorla drihten, beorna bēahgifa, lord of heroes and ring-giver, and his brother, the Æþeling, Ēadmund, won lifelong honour and glory with their swords edge at a place called Brunanburh. They smashed the shieldwall of their enemies, split shields with swords, as was natural to them from their ancestry. In warfare they protected the land against the hated foe, their hoard and homes. The attackers were crushed under English might, the Scots, Welsh, Irish and the seafarers fell to their doom. The field flowed with the blood of men, from Sunnes early rise, the mighty star, that bright candle of God, till that noble creation sank to its rest. There were scores of men, spear-gored and bloody. A Dane was seen, lying in a pool of his own intestines, his shield smashed and broken, as was the Scot beside him, a foul mess of broken bones and mangled flesh, wearied of war. For an entire day, the glorious West-Saxons went forth, from morning till night, the mounted horse-thanes pursued their enemy, scenting fear on the cool winds. The English troops hacked down their enemies with sharpened swords and seaxes. The Mercians did not refuse a good fight with the Norse warriors who accompanied Anlāf over the seas thrashing waves, seeking land and plunder. Fate was cruel to them, for they were greeted with English might! Five lay dead on the killing ground. Five young kings put to sleep by English swords. The unlucky souls were joined by seven of King Anlāfs jarls. Scots and Norsemen lay twitching and convulsing beneath the brave feet of the English army. The enemy was put to flight, the Northmens lord, with his band of guards, rushed to their ships that rested impatiently on the ocean waves, fleeing the land, saving themselves. Also, the wise-one, Constantine, with his band of Scots, all born and bred warriors, fled the English shieldwall, to the barbarian kingdom in the northern country. The Scots need not boast of that meeting of swords. Constantine was severed from kin, leaving his men behind on the field to face the wild-eyed Englishmen and their singing swords. Seaxes and spears glutted and gorged on flesh and bone and blood. Constantines son was left on the death-ground, sick with seax wounds, the young warrior lay forever silenced. He had no need to boast, the white-haired warrior, about sword-wielding, nor Anlāf either. With their army smashed, they need not boast that their battle-work was better on the field where banners crashed and spears clashed in that meeting of men, that sword-play, when on the slaughter-field they fought with Ēdweards mighty offspring. The Northmen fled in nail-bound ships, bloody survivors of spears, on Dings mere, over deep waters, seeking Dublin. To Ireland they sailed, with shame in their hearts. And so, both King and brother, triumphantly sought their native soil. To the West Saxons they travelled. They left behind them the corpses of the Scots, Vikings, Welsh and the Irish. Left as a feast for the dark raven, with hard beak of horn, white-tailed eagle, enjoying the carrion, greedy war-hawk, and that grey beast, the wolf of the wood. A greater slaughter was not ever yet on this island slain by an army before with swords blades. As books tell us, the old wise men from ancient times, from the east came the Angles and Saxons together over broad sea, seeking Britain. The proud warriors overcame the Welsh, eager for glory, the brave Englishmen won a homeland!
Posted on: Tue, 08 Jul 2014 21:30:20 +0000
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