The Raggle-Taggle Gypsy

A Sarspell {A Dolorous love-story with a happy ending In five fitts} For Jonathan

Fitt The First

Etheldred, my dearest love My heart aches to feel thy regard What shall I do to earn thy affection?

Whilom, a word which means 'Once, upon a time long past and nearly forgotten', there lived a young woman who dwelt in a big house. She was very rich, but this was not because she had a right to the money by having earned it – it was only because she had inherited it, which is not as noble as having worked for it. She was a lady, the daughter of a lord, and her name was Etheldred Wilda Hame. This lady was always warm and always well-fed, for there was always money in the box. She was pampered and spoiled, and she owned many dresses, cloaks, hats and jewels. Here is the story of how she married and what became of her afterwards. She was descended from a proud eald family who had lived in that part of the country for a great many years. They were good Saxon stewards of the land, and had kept it rich and green since the warring days of Hengist and Horsa. Their house was a large tun, and they were the masters of no less than four hundred hides. This land was diverse, for there was wold and field, river and meadow, and in the wood red deer still roamed. The forest roads were eald, but as the young woman's father and brothers and the huntsmen traveled them often, and they were still well-worn and cleanly kept as in the eald days. All the people on the land had sworn fealty to the lord; to their oaths they were loyal, and kept the woodland travelable and paid geld on their cottages and lands, and in return the lord kept them safe and allowed them to fish from the streams, gather the fruits of the woods and hunt the good red deer. Etheldred dwelt with her mother and father, and four brothers, who were all elder than she. She was the youngest by a good eight years, and as she was the babe of the family, she was especially petted by her mother, Leofwina, which in the eald language, meant beloved friend. Etheldred's mother read her great books by the fireplace on cold winter nights, taught her to sew and to spin, and to make bread and to keep the house, for these are things that every good lady should know how to do, even if she may never do them herself. She taught her how to play the harp and how to ride, and by way of spending so much time in each other's company the mother and daughter became fast hearth companions, stitching tapestries near the fire, and telling each other their bosom secrets. Once upon a time you could see them, riding on a pair of brown horses, over the misty grassy downs, their green riding cloaks flapping in the wind. They were wild and noble in those days. Etheldred loved her queenly mother more than anyone else in the world, and she looked up to her almost as a goddess, and would have done anything for her, even die in her place. But even queens must die, and when Etheldred was fifteen, a deathly fever swept through the great house. The lord and his sons were all away on tun business, and Etheldred was staying with her cousin in the next shire when she heard the news. Twelve of the best and most loyal servants of that great house lay dead, and most of the rest had fled away, stricken with fear. When the messenger told Etheldred that her mother had taken ill, she grew deathly pale and not even stopping to bid her cousin farewell, rode for home at that very moment. When Etheldred arrived home she learned that when her mother sent the messenger to her daughter, the lady had been ill nearly a se’night already. Leofwina had always been a proud woman, not wanting to admit when she was ill. Etheldred found her mother surrounded by silken blankets in bed, shivering and not even able to heat her own broth, looking very pale indeed, a mere ghost of her former stately self, sunken and consumed by fever. To see her mother, who had always been strong and wild, reduced to this shameful state was cruel. Etheldred gathered her mother in her arms and wrapped wullen blankets close round her. Etheldred stayed by her mother’s bed day and night for ten days, brewing her tea, bathing her, singing to her, and seeing to her best comfort. Etheldred put on a cloak and went out over the downs, searching for the healing herbs that would banish the fever and charm the illness away. She steeped these herbs in a broth and sang some eald healing songs, and made her mother drink the broth. The wind blew over the dark and misty fields outside the house and poked cold fingers in the cracks, but Etheldred defied it by stoking up the fire and stuffing rags in all the chinks. She was as fierce as a lioness guarding her wounded cub, refusing to believe anything but that her mother would get well. She would let no one else approach her mother but the leeche for which she sent. But he was too late. He came and opened a vein in her arm, and let the bad blood drain away, but he drained too much, and this weakened Leofwina so that she knew she must die. When she had rallied all her last vigor to her, the last of her beauty and strength, made still more beautiful by its presence in her frail body, she lifted her handsome head and with tremendous effort sat up upon her seolcen pillow, and summoned her daughter. Etheldred passed over the threshold, her long scirt making a rustling sound on the flet. Her heart stood utterly still. “My daughter,” Leofwina whispered, come to me, my Etheldred.” She held her daughter’s head in her hands. “You must listen to me. Take care of our house, and do my lord, your father credit. Tell him of my regard for him. Do not dishonor your name, and never forget the things I have taught you.” “Mother, you must not speak so,” whispered Etheldred, feeling a deep pain welling up from far within, and the tears ran down her cheeks as she began to guess the truth. But her mother seemed not to hear her. Those who are dying are already half in another world, and the troubles and feelings of mortals become invisible to them. “Do you know my berry brown horse called Hasubrun? I am giving him to you; he is yours.” “Mother, you shall not die!” Cried Etheldred with a loud and fearful wail, and a sharp pang struck her heart. She clasped her mother to her breast, as if to protect her, weeping uncontrollably, and kissing her face. But Leofwina’s eyes no longer saw her daughter, and at that moment, Etheldred felt her mother’s heartbeat slowly slip away. When the servants found Etheldred sometime later she was lying beside her mother on the bed, as if sleeping, in a sickly swoon, her warm fingers entwined with her mother’s cold ones, and they could not unclasp the two. It was a girl who had entered into her mother’s room that day, but it was a woman who came out again, and bitter woman she was. Something had shattered in Etheldred’s heart and she was never again the same. From that day forward, Etheldred neither smiled nor wept. She was the only woman in that big lonely house ever after. Sadness distresses everyone differently, and it knits some families together so tightly that they can never pulled asunder; but other families it drives farther apart, and so it was with Etheldred and her kin. She had never had any room in her heart for anyone save her mother, and that room was locked and empty now when her mother was no longer there to fill it. A spear had pierced her heart and turned it to ice. The fever did not touch her because she was very young, and she had always been strong. Neither did the lord and his four sons ail, and when they came back they found their lady already a fortnight asleep in a grassy green barrow. Etheldred was fast asleep in a dark corner, or what appeared to others to be sleep; perhaps really it was a waking dream, dark and bleak. She had not eaten nor barely stirred for the better part of a fortnight. When her father and brothers arrived home she arose and washed herself and ate bread and drank some wine. The family partook of the burial feasts with silence and none comforted the other, but each grieved alone, behind locked doors and under cold linen bedclothes, weeping alone in the dark where no sound could be heard. Etheldred let her pain go deep and slowly poison her from within. The deep sadness looking out from her eyes became marred with bitterness, and at last disappeared altogether. Her manner slowly and ambiguously became indifferent, and a great pride and coldness began creeping upon her. She lived half in a dream world, so that she scarcely heard anyone, even when they spoke to her. Her mouth had a great mark of bitter sorrow upon it, which could have been dispelled had she laughed or at least smiled occasionally, but nothing disturbed it, so there it remained and began to make her look ealder than she was. She was the image of her mother, with grey eyes which were smiltly and fierce by turns, which was very cunning. She was tall and beautiful to the eyes of men, like a great and cold queen. Her detached disposition had been coming upon her very slowly, for a great many years, so slowly in fact that she hardly noticed it. She did not really care deeply for anyone at all anymore. All her days were boredom and emptiness, and she felt little concern but for herself, and even then in a dim, detached way. In her secret heart of hearts she longed for something, anything, to disturb the melancholy tedium of her days, but she was too proud to admit this even to herself. She spent her lonely days riding the downs on her mother’s horse, Hasubrun, swaddled in her mother's green cloak, stitching tapestries alone by the fire, reading the eald stories out of her mother’s books, or plucking upon the harp that stood in the hall. But that harp never made joyful sounds again; for its strings were tempered by dust and sorrow, it sang only long and mournful tunes that trailed off into empty silences, which withered the hearts of those who heard it. It was these silences that echoed through the empty halls and fed the ghosts that dwelt there. It was a big house; now as empty and cold as Etheldred's heart. No more did the sun fill the halls with golden light. Pale the sun shone, when it chose to shine, and cold and sickly it seemed to her eyes now. And the house, it now seemed all the bigger now that there was one less soul to fill it. The halls were silent and no fires crackled in the hearths. The servants kept to their warm quarters; the warm light flickered from under wide oaken doors, as Etheldred wandered the dark halls alone save for a candle. Many a corner of that eald house had not been set foot in for long years. Etheldred used to sing sometimes in the upper towers of the house, and such a voice as she had! Like the song of an angel it would have sounded had it had not been so sad and cold. It was more like the voice of a lonely ghost who has unfinished business on earth. What a strange and beautiful voice it was! Her brothers scarce spoke to her, and when they went off to hunt or to mind the far corners of the tun, she stood at the door and handed them their bows and arrows and their bread and beer with the cold air of a shield-maiden unmoved by their going off to battle. Seasons turned and turned again; bleak days filled with mist turned to frost, and winter came and went. Twelve years passed, and Etheldred’s brothers married and were given hides of land. They built houses on them and began their own estates. The lord grew grey and began to wonder when men would come courting his daughter. Not having been young in the first place, and being often from home, he did not understand or even notice his daughter’s cold manner, and thus without noticing it, he became accustomed to it. She could be pleasant and charming enough if she chose, and when first the eyes of men beheld her, she seemed a great prize. Lords and Earls came from many miles afield to dine at the great house and to see the great lady who lived there, for they had heard she was a great beauty, but they never stayed more than a fortnight or two, and always left again after meeting with her coldness, because she did not care for any of them. She was not blind however, though she was selfish, and she saw that her father was growing eald. She was no longer a young maid herself, being seven-and-twenty, and she fully realized that unless she married, she would have nowhere to go when her father died, for by law of the land, the entire tun would go to her brothers, and she would have to rely upon them for her comfort. Her pride would not permit this, and so when one day a lord came calling, as her decision was made to be taken wife by the next lord who came, he found her demeanor pleasant; her manner engaging. He was surely not a young man, being in fact nearly twice her age, being five-and-forty, and not even much of a great deal younger than her father, but his was a very eald and noble family, and Etheldred’s father pricked up his ears when he heard how well-to-do this eald lord was. His name was Hygweard Stedewold, which meant guardian. Etheldred charmed him by playing the harp, by serving berry ale to him in gelden cups, by her queenly ways and regal countenance. He was enchanted {or thought he was} by her coldness; for he mistook it for grace. A fortnight passed, and the lord spent a good deal of time in cafortun at that ancient hall; he went hunting with Etheldred’s father, he roasted great legs of mutton upon the fire, and dined every evening at the long oak table with Etheldred and her father. No hall had ever known such great feasts before or since! Etheldred observed her potent power waxing, and she began to perceive that he was falling in love with her. Very soon indeed he would ask her to be his lady. Her premonition was truthful, for one day he came riding to the house across the green fields mist seeping up from their surfaces, hooves thundering, upon a white horse instead of his ordinary mount, an eald black cob. Etheldred was busying her idle mind with the arrangement of some flowers when her father summoned her to the great hall with the clanging of a bell. “Lord Stedewold has something to say to you, my dear,” said he, beckoning to her to come into the hall. His proposal was not eloquent; he was a plain man with a simple heart, and he had no gelden apples of words to present to her, lady as she was. When her father had left them alone together, Lord Stedewold went down upon one knee. “Etheldred, my lady,” he said, “I promise you now that my beating heart shall always belong to you. You are the fairest creature I have yet beheld. Will you take me as lord, to be your husband?” What he said was charming enough in its own way, but the words of adoration did not soften her bitter mouth, nor did he detect any warmth of feeling or flattery in the way she smiled when she allowed him to take her hand and consented to be his wife. He gave her a luminous gelden hring, and covered her small white hand with kisses, and she permitted to let her cold cheek be caressed. The acceptance of this hring was her promise to be faithful to him, and was as binding a wordgeewide as could be in that day. Now they were betrothed, as was the ancient custom. The hring was one that only a lord could afford; it was of the purest geld, and graven with these words:

I belong to Etheldred And may anyone be dead Who wears me but she Unless me she cast off willingly.

The wedding {only in those days it was called a bridelock} was to be in a fortnight, and Hygweard promised Etheldred a prodigious wedding feast, with scores of guests. But now that she was bound to him, and as binding as her word was, she did not care for him. She was wild, and proud, and did not see that her promise had to include love. That night her father called her to the hearth room to speak to her. “Etheldred,” said the eald lord, “I am pleased with your bridelock arrangements, only I want you to think carefully about what you are doing. Thriving marriage is a selfless realm, and a duty you must not take lightly. Of course I wish to see you happy with your partner in life, and able to respect your lord. You must understand, and not neglect your honor. You are the daughter of a lord, and being a lady is not merely a title, it is a responsibility. You are now to be mistress of Stedewold hall, and you must brew his beer now, and bake his bread, my daughter, you must be his lady and carry out what is due him.” “I understand, father,” replied Etheldred. “You need not speak to me of honor and duty; I am attentive to my station in life and shall not bring disgrace to it.” “Then I give you my blessing with peace-of-mind,” said her father. And no more was said upon the subject. That night Etheldred was troubled by bad dreams, and all the night the hring seemed to be a searing circlet of fire burning into her flesh, and try as she might, she could not cast it away. At the dawning the hring grew cold upon her hand and awakened her and she crept down to the hall hearth and fell fast asleep upon the hearthbed there, where the servants usually slumbered to keep the fire. Soon the hring had worn a mark on her finger, so that she could not take it off without seeing where it belonged. It was then, in spite of all Hygweard’s kindness, that she first began to hate her lord. The bitterness in her heart had a longstanding and strong foundation, and could not be melted by a mere illustration of love and the bonds of marriage. The bridelock was as her lord had promised, prodigious; a great tree gleamed with a hundred candles, the feast afterwards was notable, and indeed was noted in more than one account by partakers. Etheldred wore a handsome bridreaf stitched with blossoms by seolfor threads, and a crown of gelden flowers, and was as fair a sight as the Morning. Hygweard felt his heart give a leap of joy when he saw the striking creature before him. Indeed, everyone was awed by Hygweard's new bride, and everyone said how good a lady had come to live at his great house and finally make it a home. Etheldred received many a handgift. Thus Etheldred Wilda Hame became Etheldred Wilda Stedewold, and was so ever after. Her skin was snaw-white, and her eyes shone like stars, and she was tall and possessed the grace of a wood elf. Etheldred performed all the traditions and ceremonies that she was obliged to carry out, and all who looked upon her thought her a queenly and good lady, but she held a numbness in her heart all the while, and all her deeds were empty of love, so she remembered them not in later days. Their wedding night was Midsummer’s eve, and dark clouds sailed over the mon, which was wreathed in a yellow mist, and shone geld of itself, like a ripe cheese. It was a magical day for the common folk, a day for them to gather herbs which would have special healing powers endowed on them by the day. Bonbales were kindled across the countryside to keep away evil spirits, which would wander freely when the wind turned to the south again. When Hygweard and Etheldred drove to the house in the scrid, she was struck by its size and appearance; rising out of the moor-mist before her, it had the feel of an ancient castle, with windowed towers and chimneys rising far up into the sky; cobbled lanes and a stone courtyard preceding an enormous green garden. Hygweard opened wide the prodigious oaken doors for his bride, which were nearly like gates in girth. The inside of the house was no less impressive than the outside; for it was furnished with tapestries, dark oaken furniture; finely carved, rugs and fireplaces that belonged in a king’s hearthroom. It was a great eald-fashioned stronghold with a mickle fireside by which had once hung great sides of mutton. It was the ancient house of a proud family, who had owned the tun for time out of mind, long had it been the landmark for those weary travelers of the road, seeking hospitality or shelter, or in the days of great battles, a haven where no spears could reach. That first night Etheldred made him a lambswull brew, which is spiced ale; as was customary of new brides for their honeymon. Long ago her mother had taught her how to brew it; to present to wassailers when they appeared on the doorstep with raised voices. Hers was rather bitter, but he drank it to please her. For the tide of a mon, Etheldred was chillingly beguiling and fittingly seductive; she was the cold queen on the stair with the candlestick, the naked lady as bitter as elpendbone in his bed; the icy lips, the soft hands, the vibrant eyes which shone with a strange fire. He was enchanted by her elegance. They loved all night in the bed infused with wildflowers he had gathered for her from the downs, with comely blankets of silk, warm near the fire, but she was wordless, and never spoke an inkling of love. She was his bedfellow by night, but as distant as the mon by day. Hygweard was deceived at first into thoughts of her bléath, as a bride must be permitted a small time of timidity before the newness of her union has worn off. He learned to love watching the shadows play on her noble features, the long noble nose, the drooping eyes and full mouth like a pouting rose, the ivory ears, and the hair arranged in elaborate twists and braids with entwined flowers. She did not dress it so for his pleasure, only for her own, as was the reason for everything she did. The years had made her a headstrong, impulsive woman. She possessed the grace and elegance of a queen, but was obstinate and proud, and her coldness made her exceedingly cruel. It took Hygweard a long while to fully realize and understand her true indifference to him. After the bridelock mon was over, her conduct shifted like a cold and bitter wind. She had a selfish and wild will, and cared not for his feelings, more and more out of a habit that had been long in the forming. The more distant she became, the easier it was to remain so, and thus she drifted farther and farther away from him. Her heart beat for herself alone, and though at night he listened to its lonely beating and worshipped it, she cared not for his love. Etheldred took no notice of her husband and his affairs. Hygweard’s house was settled near a very old wold. The woods were so wild that he was afraid she would get torn to pieces by wild animals. In spite of his worry, she took to long rides over the downs on her mother’s horse, crossing the hedges and stiles of the borders of his land, and even though she knew this disconcerted him, she had no heart for his concern. “My love,” he had asked her many a time. “Must you ride so far away? There are dangerous folk outside the borders of my land, and wild animals that my woodsmen do not dare to shoot.” “Nay, I shall ride where I please,” replied she, with the haughtiness of a queen. “My horse is swifter than any wild beast, I warrant.” She heeded not his distress for her and continued to venture beyond the bounds of his tun, wandering into the wold at will and disappearing for hours. She was wild and unruly, like a hawk that refused to be tamed. The first few fortnights in the big house were lonely ones for Etheldred. Of course, all her life had been lonely, since her mother had died and there was nothing fresh about that sensation; in a sickly way, the loneliness was her comfort, simply because she had felt it for so long. It was familiar to her, and it would tear her apart to ever let it go. When her lord went away she spent the night in the big oaken bed near a fire of hot coals, and after drinking her nightly wyrtdrenc, went to sleep listening to the twigs scratching on the window panes; an eerie sound to one ignorant of their character. Sometimes she walked through the woods, clothed inside her blue silken pæll with the fur hood, gathering gelden leaves in a basket, or sat in the sunny worthyard of stone fashioning a hat with feathers and ribbon. The weather was exceedingly changeable, for it would be warm and bright one day, and cold and misty-grey the next. Etheldred listened to the wind moan in the chimneys of the ancient house, wuthering round the corners and howling in through the nooks. There was a hugeous oak that grew outside the courtyard of the house in a green field, and she used to stand and lean against it, watching the sunlight dance flickeringly through the leaves, pondering over her life, and reading a small chapmanbok of lays and fitts. Of few things that she loved, she loved the micklous oak, which grew with roots that tangled themselves into nettweorks of delicate entwined knots, stiff and rigid, as if they too, had understood great pain and then numbness. She often walked and rode out over the downs alone, under the cold grey sky, and never with her lord. She sat at her mahogany writing desk, dark and inset with delicately painted woodland-flowers, which was a present from Hygweard, and practiced penmanship for her bitter solace. All her solaces were bitter, for she had become a very lonely woman and felt cut off in spirit. She was numb to Hygweard’s love, and knew she was, aching miserably sometimes to feel love in her own breast towards him, but she had come so far in her habits that she did not know any longer how to change her heart. Thus she continued in what she knew how to be, a cold selfish woman, but there was always a mournful song that sang itself in her secret heart, and she would have cried slow, cold tears, only she had forgotten how. She did not know herself, she had grown so cold and her heart so hard that she scarcely knew who she was or how to change. She was a prisoner to her conduct, and no longer knew how to have any power over herself. She shut herself off from all the duties which to him would have been husbandly delights and comforts. When Etheldred was ill, she shut herself in her room and would not let her husband attend her, so that he had no idea for several days whether she were perchance living or dead. She used to climb the stone steps to one of the ancient towers with the arched windows, wreathed with great trees; so thick and eald that the forest floor was shrouded completely, and sit upon the open sill; singing. Her voice rang out like a magical bell over the courtyard, distant and uncanny, and fell upon many curious ears. The servants going about their tasks wondered how such a fair beautiful lady with her voice like a nightegala could be so cold and cruel. The common folk heard it far away, at their work in wood and field, and went home, telling stories of the 'lord's enchanted lady' to their children safe by their firesides. It was almost as if Etheldred was enchanted, that a poisonous curse had been laid upon her that she could not dispel. When she returned and walked again among the rooms of his house, Hygweard asked her: “My love, shall you sing for me? I heard your voice from the tower.” “My lord, you are mistaken, for it was not I,” she said with a sedate smile, “but the little bird who comes and alights on the window-casement.” “He has a strong voice for such a tiny breast,” replied Hygweard. “Indeed,” Etheldred answered, but Hygweard let the subject stand. She would not take his hand except for getting in and out of the carriage; neither would she allow him to touch her. His heart was saddened and certainly he was repelled, but instead of the hatred that should have blossomed there it filled with a strong Saxon love, the kind that grows stronger the more adversity it meets, and so he remained steadfast, like the land he lived on. Hygweard chose to be gracious to her even when she behaved with gracelessness towards him. It can be noted for him that he had exceedingly great strength of character. The deepest longing of his heart was that she would love him in return. Time and time over again he showed her kindness, yet she ignored his every display of it. Indeed, it was as if she were dead to the world and all the munificence it could bestow. Very swiftly Etheldred became cold in Hygweard’s bed. They loved not long because she would not return his affections, but was stone-still and proud and obstinate. Soon she would no longer permit him to share her bed at all, and she made him begin sleeping in a separate chamber entirely. After the first mon of their wedlock, and the beginning of her coldness, Hygweard made a resolution to not allow himself to regret his decision to marry this beautiful lady. But it was not as if he was not in love with her any longer. She enchanted him yet with her piercing eyes and her ladylike manners. Sometimes while she slept, he used to steal into her room, and behold her sleeping form. In repose, her face lost its queenly disdain and only looked young and sad; at peace in the monlight; the hands folded upon the ivory breast; seen clearly through the sheer nightgown outflung fitfully upon the pillow. He would smooth the locks of hair away from her brow so he could better see her face, and when his fingers touched her he felt a fire in his bones that no time could ever quench. He desired her with a great desire, and that aspiration was for her devotion to him. His bridelove was intensely deep, and the pet wish of his heart was her devotion, and he resolved to love her so deeply and so strongly, that someday the cold heart of that strange, beautiful creature would be broken and she could at last love him back. This thought overtook his disheartenment and kept the flame of his hope alive. This was the dream he held in his heart, so dear to him that no amount of her coldness could keep its beauty hidden from his eyes.

Fitt The Second

I have labored for thee, Suffered for thee, Yearned for thee? Why should this my torment be?

For amusement Etheldred took to locking herself in the garden, which had secret hedges and lanes enough, and out-of-the-way gates, so that if she saw that she was about to meet him on a path she could easily slip through a secret gate and stray away before she met him on the lane. She stayed as much away from her lord as possible. Perhaps it made her a bit ill-at-ease to be in his presence when he treated her with such graciousness and she treated him with such disrespect. She was lady of the manor, and he was lord, but lord and lady saw as little of each other as could be, for it was a big house, nearly like a little kingdom of its own. But Hygweard was often away from his house for days at a time on tun business, so Etheldred was frequently found herself alone save for the servants. They spoke politely to her and respected her merely because she was their lord’s lady, but among themselves they thought very ill of her. The only company she had in those days was the great household dog, Bear, an Iras wulfhound who frequented the hearthrug, where he breakfasted upon mutton bones. He loved the lady because she was kind to him, and he felt a strong tie to her with his doggish loyalty that compelled him to protect her. He waited for her at the gate, and would have accompanied her on her walks, only she bid him stay. He would not be moved from the place until she returned, and was uneasy as long as she was out of his sight. When Hygweard was away, he sometimes sent her love messages by the post, beautifully penned, which she opened and read, and then burned in her fireplace. Occasionally she wrote back to him in her graceful script, usually with the sum of these three words: I am well. Once he sent ahead of him an oaken chest with the word Etheldred engraved upon it, full of presents for her. Therein were rare jewels; rings like shining stars and necklaces like little opal mons; dainty carved boxes filled with chocolate; seolc and satin dresses, wull and organza and lace, made of the best goods in the land. There were red seolcs and blue with lace, green and white, with full flowing scirts, and little blue and grey flowers were stitched all along the bodice and the skirt. She took the chest up to her closet and hung up the dresses. She tried them on one by one, the grey ones with the long flowing sleeves, the patterned red one with the lace trim, the shining blue one with the delicate seolfor buttons, and then she put them all back into the chest. Next she tried on the neckbeags and the hrings, until she stood looking in the glass, clad as a queen for her coronation. After doing so, however, she resolved that she did not want his gifts, and would not accept them, so the arcanstones, too, went back into the chest, and it was returned to the hall whence it had been found, where the lord discovered it upon his return. He placed it carefully at the end of his bed, longing for the awaited day in which she would be more receptive to his display of love. But he did not cease trying. Once she awakened on a forstig morn to the sound of a lusty neighing in the courtyard. There stood tethered a great snaw-white horse, pawing at the stones with one foot, puffing great wreaths of steam, and when she ran down to see where it had come from, she saw that it wore a bitol with these words stitched on it in seolfor thread: *Snawfote beo mín nama, Ich tólóce Etheldred, Ic beo híe be ábene. But upon seeing this, she turned and marched right back into the house without a second look at the handsome horse. It was indeed a fine beast, with a spirited head, flanks as firm as tree trunks, and a snawy coat that shone like polished seolc. Etheldred did not care for it, and she would not ride it. *Snawfote is my name, I belong to Etheldred, I am hers to command. Snawfote beo mín nama, Ich tólóce Etheldred, Ic beo híe be ábene. Instead she sat in the parlor and leant her head against the window, her hands sat idle in her lap, listening to the regn dripping a tune to the boredom in her own heart. When Hygweard returned home and found his presents thus rejected, his heart was heavy indeed, for his only intent on giving them had been to please and delight his lady. At every turn she seemed to spite him, but he was growing accustomed to it, and so it no longer surprised him. He had to remind himself daily how beautiful she was, how fair, and in spite of her disdainful manner, he saw how sad and desolate her soul must really be, how she must truly yearn for warmth, and if he could only remain steadfast, in the end she would awaken to his love. Such deep love was his, such a strong love as beat in his breost, that it overcame all his other passions, and perhaps his better judgment. Hygweard could have no idea how very sorely his love would soon be tested. The chief duty that was required of Etheldred by the law of being his lady and his wife was to respect him. He was hlaford the loaf-ward, and she was hlafdige the loaf-maker. To go riding about with him, sleep in his bed, pour the ale at the feasts, manage the household bread and tea stores and the household keys, counting the gelden coins in his box, managing the record books, and directing the servants were all her lawful and expected duties; The household was her leodmark. But again and again she failed in these plain tasks. Tea {wyrtdrenc} was a staple in those days, and was all but the livelihood of her lord. Tea was what kept him a rich man, and he stored many different varieties in his chests, his briewteags, in a cool, dry closet which was kept locked fast. She kept the tea chests that were entrusted to her quite badly indeed, leaving the door unfastened, allowing the mould to creep in and ruin the tea. When this was discovered Hygweard was very grieved, but he deliberately said nothing, and seeing this, her heart hardened. There was a gamanwood with keys that played sweet music in the west wing of the house, and sometimes, Hygweard heard tunes flowing out from the room, but when he went down the hall to see her playing, the instrument was silent, and she was gone. When he asked her to play for him, she refused. She well knew it was a gift from him, for her name was written upon the burnished lid, and the room was empty but the instrument, the stool, and a window with a fair view of the garden. He had chosen that particular room for her pleasure.

Fitt the third

Thou wouldst not pour my ale Nor bake my bread Thou wouldst not my lady be Ah, fair cold Etheldred, How can you not my anguish see?

One day, on Etheldred’s twenty-eighth birthday, just three mons after their wedding, he made preparations for a feast, a bridefeast, in her honor. It was customary for a groom to give a feast for his new bride. As it was a tradition, the bill of fare was as eald as the hills, and consisted of nettle pudding, of which the sting disappears when boiled for long enough. Roasted hedgehogs were prepared by gutting and rubbing with salt and herbs, then wrapping them with bundles of grass before roasting them in a searing fire. There were also roast geese and capons and potatoes, brown bread, roasted nuts and berries from the forest, spiced ale and good red cheese. The fare of this kingdom was homely, but homely is goodly fit for a woodland lord and his lady. Hygweard made sure that the servants prepared everything to perfection, and the days before the feast were full of a great cleaning. In only a few hours the great hall was decorated with rare flowers and candles in every corner, and on the table Hygweard commanded that the best seolfor be used. He gave orders for the preparation to be made for a great cake, with bluebells upon it, for he knew those small flowers to be Etheldred’s favorite kind. He tapped the ealdest and best ale from his cellar, because he knew it would be the sweetest, and the most pleasant for the múthroof of a lady. Etheldred knew full well that he made sure everything was the best it could be for his bride. She knew the pains he took for her happiness, and because her heart was hard, his effort only made her ashamed and angered. The evening of the feast the hall was filled with guests. A crackling fire lit up the hearth with a rosy glow, and Hygweard had employed dreamers who could play harply tunes and gleemen to amuse the company. The table was dressed with a snaw-white cloth, shining green leaves and candles and all was in order. It was customary for the bride to appear when all the guests were seated. It was her presence which signaled the beginning of the feast. Impatient murmurings heralded her, but when she appeared upon the threshold all tongues were silenced. When Etheldred appeared, she looked a queen, for she wore a crown of shining gelden leaves in her fair hair, which was wound upon her head in elaborate and delicate braids, entwined with small glowing flowers. She wore a heavy seolc gown brocaded with flowers and leaves, and seolfor rings were in her noble ears and upon her fingers. On her feet were delicate slippers which made no sound upon the oaken hall flet. She stood quite still for a long moment, glancing round the room with a long stare as if the sight of it displeased her, and then went to her place. Hygweard stood and bowing hospitably to his guests, beckoned to his lady to pour the ale for the company, an ancient and beautiful custom, which began with the battle-feasts, when the queen of the house, the shield-maiden would pour the ale for the men and bestow her blessing upon it. It was her duty as his wife, and her duty towards the guests. Hygweard beckoned, but to his great surprise and dismay, she refused him with a nod of her head. “My love,” said Hygweard, thinking that perhaps she had misunderstood him. “Shall you do the honor of the ale-pouring?” “I will not be the spectacle for your guests,” she said quietly, so that only he could hear, meeting his face with her contemptuous one. “Their eyes are not upon me because I am fair, but because they are lusty. “My love,” said Hygweard in a last vain endeavor, looking round at the wide eyes of his astonished visitors. “Do not say such things. Think what you are doing, and do not make a scene. Their eyes are upon you because it is your place as my wife to pour the ale. Here, take the flagon. Do it for me, my love. Do not deny me this respect, at least.” The hall had grown very silent, for everyone was waiting to see what Hygweard’s willful lady would do. Something in Hygweard’s last words angered Etheldred and extinguished any hope there might have been for her obedience. “Nay, I shall not do it for your sake, and certainly not my own,” said she loudly and haughtily. “Call in one of the servants to do it. It is not my task to bear.” She beckoned a bystanding servant boy, and reluctantly he took the flagon and went round pouring the ale, his face red with shame. This was an outrage beyond any! Hygweard could only seat himself numbly. This was a most unexpected pang, and he felt his face reddening with shame and áswarnung as he felt all the eyes of his guests upon his lady, and then himself. When Hygweard’s turn came and his cup was filled, he drained the glass to soak up the sorrow in his heart, but the sweet ale was bitter on his tongue. Ale-pouring was one of the eldest and most revered signs of hospitality and respect from a lady to her lord and his guests, and this refusal to comply was the worst possible insult she could pay him. Hygweard felt a pungent anger aflame within him, and it took all the mustering of his resolve and patience to remain composed. The merriment and the amusement were now diminished. Small and clumsily came the jests, because they were now only made to ease the silence of the hall. Nobody made was-haels to Hygweard’s lady, and she spoke not a word more for the duration of the feast. Etheldred felt a bitterness rising up inside her heart so that she could hardly bear to sit there in her seolcen garments and her jewels. Her limbs were numb and her heart was dead. She wanted to fly away from the feast, from the curious and amused eyes of her husband’s guests, from Hygweard himself; for she knew he was too good for her. She burned to flee up the stairs, throw off all her fine clothes, and run barefoot, away, away over the cold damp fields, through the briars, over the moors and into the forest, like a wild thing. When the feast was over at last, and the last of the company had departed, Etheldred allowed Hygweard to accompany her to her room, her arm in his, whereupon he gently handed her the candlestick, and bowing without a word (for he did not trust himself to speak civilly), parted company. She bolted her door, shed her fine rings and bathed her face. Snuffing the candles, she stoked the fire and put tea on to boil, and for a long while she sat in a chair near the flames in her mantle and seemed to be deep in thought. For a little while Hygweard listened earnestly at her keyhole, hoping for he knew not what, but he heard not a sound, and so after a while he crept away with a heavy heart to his own chamber and went to bed, at length falling into a fitful slumber.

Fitt the fourth

Away with the wild folk Thou didst stray Thou would not listen, Though I begged thee to stay Alone and cold, thy heart was broken But love in thy breast at last was awoken

The night was eald when Etheldred climbed into her bed at last and fell asleep, and when she awoke the day was passing noon and a bright sunlight streamed across her bedclathes from the window yonder. There she lay for a time, delighting in the feel of the bedclothes and the warmth of having just awakened. Of a sudden she heard the bark of Bear and for a reason which she could not explain, felt her dead heart leap inside her. She flung back the bedclothes and did not bother with a shawl, but ran eagerly to the window to look for Hygweard, but he was not there; all she saw was the dim shape of his cloak he was riding away over the misty moors. All hope was gone. Etheldred could not express a growing sensation in her heart, even to herself, for it was disguised by many things, but her heart was falling in love with him in spite of herself, and so she would not let herself be kind to her husband lest he discover the wish of her secret heart. This slow love had been stealing upon her for many days now, and it was if she revealed her heart she would be open and unguarded from his amusement and ridicule whether voiced or not. She was much too proud for that. The feeling was still very tender and weak, merely a delicate flower, and swayed by every wind, for it was the first involuntary response to the deep love that was being bestowed upon her. For that unrelenting love was too much even for a bitter heart such as hers to reject without consequence. But now that he was gone, her heart deadened again and she sank again into numbnity. Her mind was filled with tormented thoughts, her self-regard reigned and she lost herself in dark and sorgful thoughts, caring not even for her state but dressing herself in a casul and when the weather turned from sunshine to fog, as it often did in that land, she sat in the courtyard and let the bitter regn drip down her tortured face as she gazed up into the dark sky, wishing and longing for a bolt of lightning to strike her and divest her of all feeling. For long hours she sat alone in the regn, and the morning passed away, until the casul was awash and her entire body was shivering. Little robins, fat with their fluffed out fetherhamas came and regarded her curiously from the edges of the gutters. At last she rose, and retreated into the house, where she shed her wet clothes, dressing herself with new ones by the fire, and then commenced to stare at the regn in its endless journey trickling down the panes, watching as the cormorants gathered in the green wet fields to converse with one another and streamlets of water washed through the cracks in the cobblestones like tiny rivers. She saw the micklous oak through the bleary pane, its branches moving gently in the cold wind, water dripping quickly from its dark leaves and tracing down its trunk. The fire died at last, but Etheldred cared not, and sat motionless; she did not eat or drink, though twice servants called to her from outside her door. They had been commanded by Hygweard to see to everything that she wanted in his absence, and though they cared not for her, they obeyed him gladly, bringing her wine and cheese and fruit, for he was a good master, worth obeying, and his will was the law of the house. The day darkened, and even through the regn the light could be seen fading. The brightness of the grey sky became dull, and the robins and cormorants all disappeared from the fields, departing to dryer places. The earnest clear regn stopped pattering and turned to a muddy drizzle as the gloaming deepened, but then as night fell upon the courtyard, it slackened, slowed, and then ceased altogether, and at last again, through the clean air the robins could be heard singing. Etheldred felt the nothingness grow in her heart until it swallowed up every other feeling, clutching her heart with cold fingers and draining the life out of it, and a terrible restlessness began to feed upon her until she could feel her heart throbbing in vain to burst through her breast even while she lay motionless with her feverish head upon the sill. Suddenly, a shred of song broke through the stillness and lit upon her agitated brain, kissing her dead heart to wakefulness. Had he returned? She lifted her face to the window, but instead of her husband, what was that but three strange and brightly clad figures. They came brave and bold. They were clothed in shining red and geld garments, and bells sang out when they moved. A man and two women before her window; dancing like fairies in an enchanted hring. Etheldred was fascinated. She had never seen anyone dance with such joy and energy. They espied her beholding them from the upper window and began singing for her pleasure; sweet and wild voices, enchanting her as if they had spoken a powerful spell. The man who had been still until now, began dancing; a most elaborate succession of evocative twisting and graceful leaping. His clothes flowed about him and his black eyes pierced her. He set her heart on fire for him in spite of herself, and she sighed and leaned her head upon the window. They sensed her desire and called aloud to her, saying “Come!” They sang of all the lands and sights they had seen and the secrets they had perceived. Their songs excited her heart and melted the numbness in her breast, like a lump of ice that had been breathed upon by a summer wind. Dancing like fairies, they seduced her. She began to long for freedom, and think upon her house as a great stony prison, of which she was the lonely captive. Being unwholesome as these thoughts were, she had not the present strength to realize her choice for a poor resolution. If only she could follow the gypsies forever she could be free as a bird and all of her dashed dreams would be forgotten. No longer heeding the speakings of her deepest heart, Etheldred followed the call of the gypsies, and pinning up her skirts; upstairs and downstairs she ran, casting off all her fine jewels; everything that Hygweard had given her, so that she possessed nothing which would place her in his debt. She fetched a candle from her room and then donned a suit of lether. Silent as a cat down the staircase she sped, and out the hall door, shutting it close behind her. She took the gypsies’ hands, and only a servant-girl resting from her work and espying her lady from the window saw all four of them pass into the mist and away over the hills. Etheldred had not a cloak, but the gypsies fastened bells to her toes and she forgot all sorrow, and wandering over stock and stone, she vanished into the gloaming, singing as she did. The unsuspecting Hygweard was in the North Country on ‘business’, but not of the manor as per usual. He had departed early that morning so as to avoid waking his lady. Hygweard had been struggling with a growing anger and disappointment all night long, and at last when the morning came he had arisen and drank some wine, his heart was greatly troubled, and before midday he had saddled a steed and rode north, fearing that if he stayed, he may do something thoughtless. He rode north all day, out of the impending regnclouds and into the sun, caring to stop for neither food nor rest. He rode over field and through wood, through fords and creeks and over stones, and as the sun began to sink lower in the sky, he felt his anger dispelling, and so he turned his horse’s head about for home. Always he had her in his mind's eye. He saw her before him as clearly as if she was truly there. He considered upon Etheldred's beauty, her grace, and long before he had reached halfway home, he had forgiven her in his heart. He crossed a narrow stone stile, and came upon a sudden to a whole wood filled with bluebells, like a hawen sea, upon every side and underfoot. He dismounted from his horse, and tying him in the bushes, began to gather flowers. He well knew the bluebell to be his wife’s favorite flower, as its connotations with fairies and enchantment delighted her and she used to entwine them into her plaited hair. As he rested there beside a clear pool, the wood rang out with the songs of birds, and, reminded of the way his wife sang, he closed his eyes and leaned against a tree in the cool of the gloaming. As he breathed, he felt himself being refreshed. A little farther on he spied some white blossoms growing by the wayside, shining like pale stars out of the dark of the forest. They were Starworts. And as they meant “I Worship You”, he gathered some and surrounded the bluebells with it, so that now it was a posy of blue and white. With care he fashioned the posy into a wreath with which to crown her fair, dark head. Starworts were a talisman of love, a symbol of patience. This was common folklore, known to everyone. Surely she could not refuse such a gift, so thoughtfully gathered just for her. Surely she would turn her eyes upon him and love him a little, and perhaps caress his face with her hand or at least smile. He felt love for her growing in his breost the closer he rode to home, he had a heart that was anew again, and as night fell he began to fancy that she would be waiting for him at the gate, a steaming draught of warm ale in her hand, in her sheer seolcen night-garment. Hygweard came home to bed that night with a heart which beat steadfastly for his wife and lady, and he shed his road-stained cloak in the hall and washing himself, climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, flowers in hand, and determining to please her, gently knocked upon the door. When there was no answer he entered softly, unsure of how he would find her. To his alarm he discovered the room cold, for the fire had gone out, and her bed was made up and empty, but for the arcanstones that lay upon it. The crown of flowers he had so lovingly prepared for her fell to the floor, forgotten. He lit a candle and examined the room more closely, hoping to find some small token or note that would explain her absence, but he could not discover any other traces of her save for her little gelden hring, this tiny pledge of their wedding in a packet on the hearth. Taking the little piece, he stroked the seolcy geld and his heart ached that she would leave it behind. Surely she could not have done so on purpose; she must have meant to take it with her. Stoking up the fire out of distraction and disquiet, he rang for a servant. “Where is my lady?” He asked. “Is she anywhere to be found? Dining, perhaps, though the hour is rather late.” “My lord, stammered the servant girl, clearly frightened. "Forgive me, my lord, but she’s gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies. “Gypsies!” exclaimed Hygweard. “It cannot be true. When did this happen? Why did you not stop them from taking her?” “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I didn’t see as they 'took' her. Taking didn’t have anything to do with it. My lord, she went, clear as day!” The servant girl was plainly agitated, and Hygweard didn’t question her anymore. His heart was broken and he felt the numbness setting in. How could she leave him? His wife, his wedded lady, going to live with the cruel and unruly gypsies? He would not endure it! First he called for his milk-white steed, for the big horse he had ridden home upon was not swift after so much journeying. Next he called for two hot draughts of strong ale, one of which he drank and the other he put away; three day’s food, a new cloak, and lastly he carefully gathered his wife’s blue seolc cloak with the fur-lined hood, and tucked it carefully into his saddlebag. The servants stood trembling at the gate. “I shall ride on day and night, for I seek my bride,” he said. “And I cannot say when I shall be back again.” And swinging a great leg over his horses’ flank he was away. For many days he rode with hardly a stop for bite or sup. He rode east and he rode west. He rode north and south also. He rode through meadow and over rill by bridge of stone. It was a fortnight that he rode alone, until his horse panted from weariness. Hygweard grew weak with hunger for he had exhausted his supply, but he kept on and would not stop seeking her. He rode through wood and by stock and over green hills, under grey skies and blue, until one day he came to a wild open field purple with a sea of heather, and it was there that he spied at last his lady. It was an exceedingly grey and wet day, and parts of the hills were hidden with veils of choking white mist. He spied her from afar, across a great streaming river; rushing with regnwater, and so overjoyed was he that his heart leapt up and began pounding in his breast. He gave rein to his steed and flew like a bird over the last field until he came to a stop at the river’s edge. She looked up and beheld him with clear eyes from the opposite bank, but said not a word. Hygweard felt cold chills, as if she had bewitched him, and he feared his horse would lose his footing and be swept away in the current; otherwise he would have braved the crossing. Etheldred spoke not a word, but only gazed at him. “My lady,” he ventured at last. “What do you do here? The hearth and my bed are waiting, for they are all cold and dark without you. Come away with me!” “Nay!” She cried, to be heard over the rushing river, and her voice was as cold and wild as the wind. “My lord, you try to keep me locked up in that eald house like a bird in a cage. I will not be kept against my will.” “But my lady, what of your bridely vows? What of your goose-fether bed, and think of the blankets strewn about so comely in the firelight. How could you leave your newly wedded lord? Hygweard was desperate, for he could sense that he was losing her. “What think you of returning with me?“ “I care not for such things,” came the proud voice, “I care not for your house nor your money, and I shall never come back to you, for now I am free, and not yours any longer. I’d rather have a kiss from the swarthy gypsy than belong in your bed, my lord.” At her words he felt his heart sicken and die within him, and the last of his hope drained away. A tear came to his eye and he allowed it to fall. A single moment before, Etheldred had felt exultant in her denial of her husband, and she had felt glorious in her freedom, so that she hardly knew what she was saying. Of course she didn’t want to return with him to all those things which she felt in her heart to hate so much. It surprised her though, when she thought about it, that he had come all this way just to search for her, his bride, and bring her home with him. When she saw his tear she was confused and deeply ashamed, but she did nothing. Hygweard was resolute now, and reaching a narrow bend in the rill, and stretching out his hand, he gave over into her keeping the little blue seolc cloak with the fur lined hood. As she reached for it he took her cold hand and kissed it fervently before she could prevent him. When she shook the cloak out to wrap it about her, a packet fell out. Inside there were oranges and sweet cakes and nuts, a bottle of wine and dried meat. All he had saved for her and would not touch even though he was near starving. They were all tied up carefully in a bag which he had prepared for her with his own hands. She drew the cloak about herself, and taking the packet, gave him a nod. Even though he felt his heart was breaking, Hygweard turned away and without looking back, rode off across the damp fields, the wind shrieking in his ears, leaving her behind him with the gypsies. He could not bear to look back and be riding away, abandoning her to the fate she had chosen. He wondered if she watched him as he flew away. It felt strange to him to return home without his bride. He felt empty, as if bereft of a great treasure which would have made him rich indeed had it lasted. His great house with all its history, and all its fine furnishings was an empty shell without the fine lady who had once dwelt there. He cared nothing for his land, his money, his house; his heart was broken and cold without her. Etheldred was left alone, and though she felt relieved that he had gone, some part of her wept when she saw him riding away, becoming smaller and smaller like a little white stone, until he disappeared, entirely. If only he had known that she would have gone with him then, if he had but cast a glance over his shoulder back at her. The gypsies were a truly a strange folk, she was already beginning to see it. At first they seemed to respect her, for they fondled her hair and stroked her clothes as carefully as if they were going to wear the garments themselves. They gave huge feasts every evening. Wild beerships with dancing on the tables, loud toasting and full-bodied wine in fine plenty and every night they would fall asleep by the flicker of the fire. They seemed very interested in her jewels, and after fingering them, put them on, and would not return it to her, even when she demanded it. Very soon she felt like a haftling once again, because she was made to stay near to the camp in case she was needed. They dressed her every morning in ragged cloaks, ribbed skirts and they tied bright scarves round her head, while her curly hair blew free in the wind. She became the nightly lover of Johnny Faw, which was the name of the king of the gypsies. He was rough and wild, and had no gentle touch. He loved her not like a woman, but as if she was seolfor or geld, forcefully embraced in his arms, for geld and bright things were all the earthly goods he truly cared for. For three long fortnights she was away with the gypsies. They were a rambling folk, moving from place to place, uprooting themselves in one field and then journeying on the next. Etheldred stood alone. The wind moaned against the stones, making a lonely sound, far lonelier to her ears than anything had ever sounded before. They came to their wild moorland castle of dark cold stone, their ancient stronghold, which was all that was left of the days of eald, and locked her in a remote tower where she had no warmth of fire, nor comfort of the company of dogs. Her misery grew day by day and followed her everywhere she went, whether it was to the tower or to the large oak tree. She learned the gypsy dances and sang their songs, but her heart was elsewhere. To ease her sleep they gave her ellenberry wine drugged with poppigas, and she slept still as a stone all night and well into the next morning. This drug made her wild and rough, and kept her bonehouse bound to their ways, but her heart was flying away over the fields back to a certain ancient house where dwelt her lord. One day as she lay shivering, she saw that in the packet he had given her, he had sewn a little secret pocket inside it, and upon unfastening the button, out fell her gelden hring! What a wonder! She felt as though she had found a long-lost treasure, and kissing the hring, she slipped it upon her finger, tracing its words with her hand, lovingly whispering the words and chanting them aloud to comfort herself, and they became a song that seared themselves in her soul:

I am belong to Etheldred And may anyone be dead Who wears me but she Unless me she cast off willingly.

Etheldred promised to herself that never again would she cast the hring away willingly. If she never saw him again, she would wear it forever. She considered what words of love she had once heard from him, and had never given back to him. To her memory returned thoughts of warm nights in his loving embrace which at the time she had found distasteful, and she wondered now how she could have ever done so, his sweet kisses falling like precious flowers upon her neck, and his hands circled round her naked waist in an adoring manner. What had she done? She had cast her only treasure into the fire. To have gained the love of so good a man was a rare and beautiful thing! Ah how bitterly she regretted it now, in this moment when her walls closed in around her, and it seemed too late. She comprehended in that moment how much she loved him, she loved his ancient house and his estate, she loved her husband and longed to have him back again. The tears, after so many years dormant, were unlocked and she cried like the regn, weeping long into the night. She thought of a sudden of the cloak that he had left her with, and fancied that it may bring sleep to her, for it smelt of the house that she had left. After putting it on, she felt something just inside the lining. Upon drawing it out, she discovered that it was a small note, penned in Hygweard's own hand, and this is what she read: *Healsgebedda Luflíc, cwæ eftcymest. Ic lufe ge. She wept aloud, and was tormented. When she had calmed herself a little, she knew she must return to him. But what kind of man would take her back? A fool? Surely he had forgotten all about her by now. And she certainly deserved no better. What a thankless wretch she was, now she realized it in full. She could never hope to ask him to honor her by being her husband again. No, she must return and beg for his forgiveness and his mercy, and entreat him to allow her to be his servant. She would be happy just to see him once, and perhaps he would deign to let her kiss his hand. She saw it all, now. How could she have lived so long without loving him when he had been so faithful to her? How wicked she had been! She would never forget how loving a husband he had once been to her, and how she had so cruelly rejected his affections. *HealsgebeddaLuflíc, cwæ eftcymest. Ic lufe ge Dearest wife, please come back. I love you Rising up, she descended the tower stair, intending to return immediately to her lord's house, but the gypsies would have no such thing. "And where do you think you are going?" Johnny Faw asked, from the corner with his party of revelers. "You shall find that it isn't this easy, just to pack up and go, my fair queen!" Encouraged by his words, all the gypsies began surrounding her, their seolfor and geld jewelry dangling from their necks on chains and pendants, their bright scarves and shining eyes, and suddenly Etheldred felt overwhelmed by all the colors. They spun about her like whirling winds, making her uneasy on her feet. "There are miles and miles to go; it will be two month's time before you will even reach your kingdom." "Then I will travel two month's time," she retorted, a new determination beginning to smolder in her heart. But still they gathered, stood in her way and would not let her pass but crowded in upon her. Etheldred felt a sharp pang of sudden fear. "Nay! You shall not detain me," she cried, taking a daring stance, "How dare you! I am a Lady and the daughter of a Lord!" Her words were met with mocking laughter. "What care we for your fine title and mighty ways, lady?" They cried. "You gave that all up to come be among us!" They tousled her up, shaking out her hair, dirtying her cloak with their grimy hands, making her dance against her will, and obliging her to drink strong draughts whether she willed or no. At last they left her to fend for herself, and she fell into a sickly swoon.

Fitt the fifth

Come home at last, be by my side Be ever my friend, my lady, my honored bride.

In the morning when she awakened upon the hard ground, she was alone in the cold tower. They were gone, flown like a wisp in the wind, never to return, and she felt as if the night before had been only an unhealthy dream. She escaped the tower by way of the stair, and rested a moment on the threshold. She was wasted and feverish, and wrapping herself in her cloak which was grimy with mud and leaves, fit no more for a lady. She rose to her feet and faced the South, and began in that direction, for she knew that somewhere, over the homely fields and the wild moors lay a quiet house where her heart was. She set out with neither bite nor sup and went that way for two days before she succumbed to hunger and thirst, and drank from a little cold stream running through some stones. She found a few dried berries which she ate, but she felt herself growing weak, and her head was on fire. It became clear to her now just how far from home she had roved. She passed over stone and stock, her seolcen gypsy shoes riddled with holes, the gelden bells had long since broken off. At last her shoes were only rags, and came off her feet like so many seolcen spider strands. Now the only token left of her gypsy revels was a ragged seolfor belt about her slender waist. She was seen as a lonely grey pilgrim, trudging over the hill and through the valley for many a day and seen by many an eye, who wondered what her dreary errand could be. She walked day after day, braving the regn, shivering through the fog, her holey cloak hanging, the hood drawn about her face, which was made pale and pathetic by the hunger and cold. For a fortnight she travelled thus, never stopping, always looking southward; ever southward. Sometimes she saw smoke rising above the trees and knew that it blew hither from that great house. She journeyed on and on, yearning to see a sight she would now call dear over that far green hill. Many days passed, and still she went on, ever on. One chill day she opened her eyes to a pale sun, and through the wisps of departing mist. The wind swept over the familiar fields, and blew the sweet scent of heather to her nostrils, and she knew that she had not much further to travel. She came to a green barrow, and saw the hearthrick of her home over the hill, but her will was gone, and her strength had been gone a week hence, and she could go no further. Looking upon that sight which for so long she had yearned to behold, she was at peace. She was too weak even to climb as far as the crown of the hill. Strangely content just to be so near to him whom she loved, she lay down her head upon a grassy cnoll and there she slept, even as she swooned, a flown dove come home again. It was there that he found her. It was no unusual circumstance for him to ride there, looking after the direction he knew she must be, and longing after her return. Bear began barking and looking hitheryond, and looking to where the dog darted like an arrow, Hygweard found her, bedraggled and wet, in a sickly swoon upon the side of the hill where she had laid her head. Her hair was out of its fair wundenlocks and hung like curling damp wool against her pale, noble face. Her cloak hung in empty tatters about her, and her dress was wet through, and stained with the blood of her efforts and spattered mud. She was deep in the swoon, having lain there all night, and she shivered mightily, so that he knew she was alive. With a great and bitter cry, Hygweard leapt from his horse and gathered her in his arms, kissing the pale face that he had thought never to see again. Suddenly there came flashing to his vision, the small geld hring that she wore upon her finger! Joy flooded his heart at the sight, and again and again he kissed her hand, hoping in vain to wake her from her deathly sleep. What wondrous wyrd had brought her home to him again? Thus Hygweard carried her home over the fields, and laid her to rest in a soft bed. But Etheldred was very ill to the point of being feverish, and late that night, while she tossed her head and moaned deliriously, Hygweard rode over the dark fields, many miles away to fetch a leeche. The leeche came and prepared his pungent poultices and, opening a vein in Etheldred's arm, let blood. For three days Hygweard feared for his lady's life. The fever grew in intensity, and sucked the life from her face, creating pale hollows where once had been roses. She became thin so that the sight of her small delicate hand, almost transparent on the coverlet, was pathetic. The servants said nothing aloud but went about their tasks wordlessly, and only secret whispers were exchanged behind closed doorways of “the master's lady, who had come home again,” and sighs and wonderings of whether she would live. Hygweard did not lay down his head in those three days, for fear that when he awakened he would see his lady no more. By turns he stood at her side, bathing her head and speaking to her, and sometimes he would walk or ride the length of his estate, always hoping, always longing to return to see her well again. At night he would sit near the fire, singing the songs of his ancestors for her, stoking the fire and sitting up all night gazing out upon the star-studded sky, or upon her pale face, fair as the mon even in that waking death. The three days passed and in the dark morning of the fourth day, half past one, her fever came to its peak. It had her in its grasp, for she was writhing fitfully in its grip and once or twice cried aloud. The leeche rubbed his dry hands together. "This fever will either fix or finish her, my lord," said he. "There is nothing more that I, or anyone can do. Only time will determine her wyrd. Hour after hour passed, and at last the lady upon the bed lay still. Hygweard sat near the fire, ashes upon his head. The leeche had fallen asleep upon the chair. Hygweard gazed upon Etheldred very carefully, searching for even the smallest flicker of motion that would alert him to her life. Her lashes were closed, and for one sick instant he thought she had fallen into that peaceful sleep, but suddenly Hygweard saw a small movement in them, like a flutter of bird's wings. He leapt to his feet and seized her hand, holding it against his breast, and kissing it with a thousand tears. Etheldred opened her eyes and looked about her. She felt weak and weary, but the sick dreams that had gathered about her of late were dispelled, and once again she saw the morning sun, streaming in the window like gelden lace. Her senses gradually all returned to her, and then she realized that her lord, Hygweard was there at her side, and holding her hand. Drawing back in fear and shame, she spoke. "Nay, my lord, do not touch me, for I am not worthy even to kiss your hand." She turned away, daring not to look him in the face. She was deeply ashamed. "Hush, my lady, say no more, you have been very ill, and I shan't hear you say such nothings," replied Hygweard. At the sound of his voice all her trembling ceased, she felt a great calm coming over her, and she could not dispute his words. With a little moan and a sigh, her eyes closed. "Sleep, my beautiful lady," said Hygweard "only sleep." Etheldred could not argue; she heard his words and instantly felt herself drifting into a beautiful place where there was no confusion and no sorrow; only quiet rest. Hygweard went and bathed, and put on new clothes. He ate and drank, and pouring some strong wine, brought it to his lady in a flaske. Etheldred had slept for many hours, and now it was late in the afternoon. After she had drank some of the wine, Hygweard fetched her hot tea, and opened wide the window that overlooked the gardens so that his beloved might hear the birds sing and feel the mild wind that ruffled the tops of the heather. As he approached her side he could see that she was greatly distressed. He saw that she could not speak but the tears streamed down her face like regn. It touched him to see those fair gems of sentiment fall so from her ebony lashes, a mark of feeling which he had never before seen from her. They were a precious and beautiful thing, those tears. As rare as jewels. "What is it, my love?" Hygweard asked, and at his affectionate words she wept anew. At length she spoke with difficulty: "My love?' You call me 'your love?' I better deserve to be called your slave! I cannot believe that you would still take me to be your wife, your lady, after all I have done, all I have failed to do. I have failed you, insulted you in fact, in every conceivable way and have done everything I could do to deserve your hatred. I have not appreciated your love for me; I have not even respected you. Yet still you love me? What is love that it should be so strong? I feel something so strong in my heart for you now, but I dared not hope that it would be returned any longer. I humbly beg for your forgiveness." "My fair queen, for queen you are to me, you have already been forgiven. I never gave up hope that you would come back to me." "My lord, I don't understand. I have gone past the place of recall. How can I ever come back to you? I am not worthy even to reside under your roof as a servant. My lord, do not call me your lady, for I do not deserve the name. My former pride is disgusting to me, and I am deeply humbled. How did you endure month after month of my cruel and harsh conduct?" She was agitated now, her eyes became wild and her transparent hands began grasping the bedclothes in a fitful way. "Hush, my love you shall not speak of this now, for you are not well enough to consider it," soothed the lord, smoothing her tangled hair, trying to comfort the contorted brow. "Know simply this, that I am your lord and you are my lady, so shall it be forevermore. Sleep, now." A fortnight passed and Etheldred began to get well. It was late fall, and the common people who were under Hygweard's care were busying about with the harvesting of fruit in the orchards, housing their woolly sheep in warm barns, nutting and hunting in the browning forests. Improvements had also been conducted on the ancient estate, itself. The broken stiles were repaired, and a new cobblestone road was laid from the great hall door to the very rim of the estate. It was delightful to behold the common folk with their comings and goings, gathered together at last with their simple parties filled with rosy roasted apples and hot ale. Seasons changed and changed again, spring came and with it the mist on the moors. One bright morning Hygweard came in to her, clad in dew from head to foot, with fresh strawberries and bluebells he had gathered just for her in the wood. Wordless, she took his hand and could only kiss it. She placed the flowers near her bed. One day Etheldred felt her weakness leave her, and she rose from her bed and walked to the window to look upon the fragrant fields, filled with woolly sheep. When she was better, she dressed in a cloak and hood and went wandering alone as she had done of eald, her hair in braids studded with Hygweard's bluebells, to visit the micklous tree. It had grown great and gelden, with nuts in clusters upon every green-leafed branch. She stood reflecting under its ancient branches, the sun shining hotly down upon her through the boughs, watching the men at work in her lord's fields. They bowed to her as they passed her on the road, riding their ealfara horses. She had a lot of time to think, reflecting on her past conduct, and love grew ever-stronger in her heart for Hygweard. One day the lord came in from a hunt, and lifting the latch upon the great door, he passed from the outdoors to the indoors, and came upon his lady. Etheldred was standing facing the hearth. He paused to gaze at her fair figure, much improved from her previous illness. She turned to face him, and suddenly, quite suddenly, she smiled, and he felt struck from the inside out, as if by a sudden unexpected daycandleberst. Her whole complexion was transformed, as if her face had become the very sun, beaming out to warm the whole world and thaw the sickly ice from every brow and corner. It was such as smile as has never warmed the hearts of men before, or since. Her hair flowed down, unbound, like a dark river over her pale shoulders and her maidenly form, over the soft curves and lines that could be clearly seen through her sheer garments, draped about her as if she were as wild as a wood-elf. The sight of her made his heart leap up within him, and he felt unsteady on his feet. He could not speak, but only stood and looked at her. She came to him, and he put his arms about her, feeling like he had captured a goddess in mortal form. So Etheldred came at last to be a good lady, and love her lord with all her heart. They lived happily ever after, the lord and his lady. She became a fire in his bed, and never failed to give him affection. She kept his tea safe and dry, counted his geld, and baked him great brown loaves of bread, steaming hot in the oven. Once, when he broke open a loaf, he found a box with a gelden hring inside on which was graven: *forgief mé mín léof The servants began to whisper behind doors that there was never a more devoted wife and lady than Etheldred the fair. She sang for her lord with her enchanted voice, and played sweet melodies on her stringed instrument for him, whenever he asked. Her bitterness became humility, and her aloofness, a regal grace. Her clothes hwispered and hwished like leaves when she moved through the halls and she had closets full of gowns, and chests full of jewels, all gifts from her loyal lord. Her heart opened wide for giving gifts to the poor, for she was now possessed of a truly merciful character. Hygweard noticed the change in her, and he was deeply joyful, a part of this joy erupted from the deep satisfaction that always comes as the reward of an unending long-suffering. *forgief mé mín léof Forgive me, my love His recompense was well-earned. Next year around Midsummer, Etheldred bore Hygweard a little son, and she called him Hreowan, which means Repentance. Seasons turned and turned again. The sun shone and Harfestwet drenched the fair fields. Etheldred became a tale that the common people told to their children, and when those children grew up they told it to their children. So a legend was born, which still remains to this day, in a song. Hygweard was filled with a deep devotion for his wife, and as for Etheldred, she held in her heart all that he had done for her, how he had taken her cold and broken heart and made it into something beautiful, and so she lived, growing in beauty and grace, and she was the warmth in his bed and the rose of his heart ever after.

The End (Se Ende)

Lëaf ’s Notes

I spent a good deal of time researching this ancient song, but I was not rewarded by a lot of information. I did find many other versions of the ballad, but not a lot on the actual facts of the story, which is what I had been looking for. This story intrigued me because it kept popping up in places: On a C.D called Celtic Thunder, and in the Charles Dickens BBC adaptation of Bleak House, a ladies' maid is observed singing this song while sewing. It is a traditional ballad, and once I read the lyrics in full, I couldn’t resist penning my own account of the story. Old ballads with an inkling of truth in them always intrigue me, like a secret half-told. The theme of the runaway lady is very poignant as well, as in those days especially, financial and emotional security were assets very highly desired among the women, and a story about someone who is willing to just throw all that away is a curious woman, indeed; a woman worth writing about. Etheldred reminds one of Vashti, in the bible, who refuses to come in to where her husband, the king, and his friends are feasting. While Vashti pays for her disrespect by a divorce, Etheldred has no such ill luck; she does not get what she deserves, and this eventually brings about her deliverance, so often that is the case with us; we are forgiven and given another chance when we deserve to be condemned. This song, although popular in Ireland, is of Scottish origin. The song tells of a lady living in comfort and leisure who absconds with the gypsies. The event is thought to have been an actual one. It is a tale about the man who has a treasure, a proud treasure which in its present state is worthless, but as she treats him with disregard and disrespect, he treats her with respect, and pursues her as though she is a precious jewel, and one day, she becomes the jewel that he behaved like she was all the time. We are told that she becomes a much better person at heart, ever-thinking of the poor, and pouring the ale at his feasts and being the warmth in his bed and the rose of his heart ever after. All in all, this tale promotes love and patience and self-sacrifice, but most strongly of all, forgiveness. I wanted this book to have a very 'Old Englishy' feel to it, so it is infused with Anglo-Saxon words; and features the word-hoard throughout the tale printed in gold ink, so that you can easily look up the word in the back of the book for its meaning. I divided this tale into 'fitts' instead of parts or chapters, because fitt is the Anglo-Saxon word for 'part of a poem'. There is also a secret rune poem, a part of which can be found at each fitt heading. A rune map is provided here, so you can discern the poem. It is indeed my delight to present this little tale to you, written by my own hand.

History Of The Songs

A very little is known on the history of this ancient story. Although it is attractive to attribute the original to the story of Lady Jane Hamilton, wife of John Kennedy, Earl of Cassislis, running away with her lover Johnny Faa or Faw which is a name given to all the kings of the gypsies, this song is clearly older than the 17th century. It is impossible to say who the author of the song was, and when exactly it was conceived. It appears in Francis James Childs' popular English and Scottish Ballads.

Old English Wordhoard:

Arcanstones-Anglo-Saxon word for jewels Áswarnung-Anglo-Saxon word for embarrassment Bedclathes-obsolete spelling for bedclothes Beerships-Parties, banquets: Anglo-Saxon coinage from gebéorscipe Betrothed-Anglo-Saxon treowð 'faithfulness' 'truth' 'a pledge' Bitol-Anglo-Saxon word for bridle Bléath-Anglo-Saxon word for coyness, shyness Bonbales-A bonfire; coinage from Anglo-Saxon compound banbæl Bonehouse-Banhus-Anglo-Saxon kenning for body Breost-obsolete spelling for breast Bridely-Anglo-Saxon coinage from brýdlic; bridal Bridreaf-Anglo-Saxon word for a wedding garment Briewteags-Anglo-Saxon coinage for teaboxes: brewboxes Cafortun-residence Candlestick-direct Anglo-Saxon coinage: candelsticca Casul-an overcloak to keep off rain made of silk or wool Chapmanbok-Anglo-Saxon ceapmanboc, so called because chapmen used to sell small books like that on the street Cnoll-obsolete spelling for knoll Daycandleberst-Anglo-Saxon word, a kenning for sunburst daycandle-sun, berst-burst Dreamers- coinage for harper, from Anglo-Saxon word dréamere Harply-Anglo-Saxon coinage; hearplic; like a harp Eald-obsolete spelling of old Ealfara-Anglo-Saxon word for 'packhorse' Ellenberry-obsolete spelling for elderberry Elpendbone-Anglo-Saxon for ivory, elephant-bone Fetherhamas-Anglo-Saxon coinage of compounds feþer {feather} and hama {cloak} Flaske-obsolete spelling of flask Flet-floor Forstig-obsolete spelling of frosty Gamanwood-Anglo-Saxon word for an instrument made of wood Geld-obsolete spelling of gold Gleeman-Anglo-Saxon coinage from glíwman, musician Haftling-Anglo-Saxon word for prisoner hæftling Handgift-Direct Anglo-Saxon coinage for a wedding present Harfestwet-Anglo-Saxon coinage: hærfestwet A fall rain Hawen-Anglo-Saxon word for azure, purple, blue Hearthbed-divan, from Anglo-Saxon compound heorthbedd Hearthrick-chimney, Anglo-Saxon coinage from hréac-ric Hides-A hide is an Anglo-Saxon division of land. Hitheryond-Anglo-Saxon word for thither and yonder; hidergeond Hlafdige-obsolete spelling of lady Hlaford-obsolete spelling of lord Honeymoon-direct coinage from Anglo-Saxon word; hunigmona Hrings-obsolete spelling of rings Hwished-coinage of my own devices, to mimic the Anglo-Saxon word 'hwisper' Hwispered-obsolete spelling for whispered Iras wolfhound-obsolete spelling of Irish Wolfhound leeche-obsolete spelling of leech Leodmark-Anglo-Saxon word for domain Lether-Obsolete spelling of feather Mickle-coinage from Anglo-Saxon micel; great, large, illustrious Mon-obsolete spelling of moon Múthroof-Anglo-Saxon 'mouthroof'-palate Neckbeags-Anglo-Saxon for neckrings {necklaces} Nettweorks-obsolete spelling of networks Nightegala-obsolete spelling of nightingale Pæll-Anglo-Saxon word for cloak poppigas—obsolete spelling for poppies Regn-obsolete spelling of rain Scirt-obsolete spelling of skirt Scrid-carriage, wagon Seolcen-obsolete spelling of silken Seolfor-obsolete word for silver Smiltly-serene, direct coinage from Anglo-Saxon smyltlic Snaw-obsolete spelling of snow Sorgful-coinage from Anglo-Saxon sorg, sorrow, grief, affliction. Tide-Anglo-Saxon coinage: tíd, Meaning time, period- tíd Tun-Estate Was haels-Anglo-Saxon word for toasts; good healths Wordgeewide-contract; written agreement Worthyard-Anglo-Saxon worþgeard, meaning courtyard Wullen-obsolete spelling of woolen; wool Wundenlocks-coinage from Anglo-Saxon wundenlocc, 'braided locks' Wyrd-and old word for 'fate' or 'luck' Wyrtdrenc-Anglo-Saxon tea herbal drink {wort-drench}