OME,

LISTEN.

Oft we’re told the wondrous acts

of Sceaf and Scyld, Ingild and Ine,

how they raised their swords, reputations won

and realms lifted into light and glory!

And the stories of saints, martyrs in their mighty

faith, and their favors to the devoted.

Tonight I’ll tell of a history lost, hidden 

and till now unknown, a relic of old royalty—

long they’ve slept in the cold.

Remember now Ælfwynn, a Lady of Mercia, 

sovereign of that kingdom of marcher lords—

a lady who slew serpents, nicoras,

wights of all sorts, to succor her folk

in their times of need. Never did she leave them

unprotected in peril, abandoned to fear.

She ruled kindly, keeping to righteous honor.

Her noble line from Adam to Noah,

Woden to Cerdic descended down

to her grandsire Ælfred Rex Angulsaxonum.

Sole heir of Æthelflaed and Æthelred,

of the prestigious line of Penda and Offa,

she was kin to Æthelstan Rex Anglorum.

Swordplay and wordplay she learned in the yard,

skilled and fierce, no skirmish ever lost

even to masters among her mother’s men.

Verse and scripture she grasped with virtuous

ease, her mind elevated and adroit

in everything she set to govern.

Truly a steady friend of Strathclyde and Alba,

upholding the peace passed down

by her mother Æthelflæd, the first Lady of Mercia.

II.

HEN a Wild Hunt appeared in the west,

she prayed for wisdom, then proceeded with haste,

ready to deal out the remedy at once.

The folk of Tamworth, true to their lady,

kept the kingdom while she served her duty

to the terrified citizens tormented by that Host.

It was said the Hunt first showed in Powys, 

with each warrior clad in ancient armour.

Their lean harriers leapt, the horses

pounded down the path, and baying filled

the valleys shadowed by the sleeping moon.

At their head, a tall figure rode 

crowned in eldritch fire. His mount’s

massive scream and forward-lunge

led the score of men to surge skyward.

Towns and villages fell victim,

for the king sought his queen, his Host their wives,

these centuries gone by, doomed

to search forever. This was their fee for failure

to save the Lord’s land from invaders.  And so,

they howled and beckoned, and the ghostly horn

called the irresistible beacon of command:

women to awaken and walk forth,

and turn their faces up to the hovering Host.

Yet one by one the women fell, 

devastated, struck dead, the wrong ones

once again. The wake of wretchedness

grew long, burg after burg

emptied of women, young and old.

III.

ELFWYNN, Lady of Mercia,

daughter of Æthelflæd, ruled the country

alone. When she caught those miserable cries

of grief, a woe in the west, she hurried there

to discover what harried her people’s peace.

She rode her swiftest steed, with her best

seasoned troops, soon finding

signs of menace left throughout—

barren fields, burnt-down

houses, the stench of turned earth

stung with smoke and souring decay,

new crosses set over every mound.

To the thegn and ceorls, the lady spoke,

“Now tell me what curses our land, I know

you’ve witnessed this wrong.” The thegn reported,

“Lady, a Wild Hunt has descended, 

snatched every good matron and maiden—

wives and daughters these captains of destruction

have killed. By all accounts, they seek 

their departed loved ones and accuse us of keeping them.

Every night, they summon the victims 

with a horrific horn—” But lady interrupted,

“Then it’s clear the coming task.

We shall track the Hunt, pursue the Hunters.

My great sword Beorht-Gyth

belonged before to the Blessed Æthelflæd.

She was forged by dwarves, and wyrm-beloved,

a bright battle companion with power

to challenge any enchanted treasure.

I, Lady of Mercia, declare

an end to the plunder of dismal wraiths.

We’ll wage battle till relief is wrought!”

Returned the thegn, “Lady, would the Hunt

not also seize you—your soul ensnared?”

In answer, the lady looked to heaven:

“Fate unfolds as it must. Everything

comes from the goodness of the Lord above.”

With her gallant troop gleaming in glorious

splendor, mail and helmets flashing,

she turned to the next burg, settled

at the wood’s edge, and waited for the gloaming.

IV.

OON Frig’s star arose; 

all remaining light fully fled.

The brave band readied their horses,

hardened their hearts. Into the town

they rode, their valiant lady at the van.

At the market cross they marked the time,

listening to a soft and distant howling.

Louder and more clamorous the keening grew,

til suddenly the Hunt swept in aloft,

aglow in a lurid light, led 

by a crowned king anointed in gore.

Their demon steeds streamed over

the town, frothing red at their bits,

raking and snapping at their fellows’ flanks.

They whirled in the sky, trailing flames.

Behind closed doors, the folk

huddled, hushed, straining to hear.

The lady held Beorht-Gyth high,

and announced her ringing challenge:

“Your unhallowed horn cannot sound;

my blade’s magic makes it mute.

Leave at once, lest I bring it down

on you and your wicked kin.”

The king rose in his saddle, his sockets 

blazing crimson, jaws gaping

a black gorge that gave forth

his furious wordless wail.

“Who is this challenger who chokes our designs,

who dares obstruct our present purpose?”

To his lips he brought that blooded horn,

shaped from a great bull’s skull,

but no blare blasted, no summons came.

In a rage, the king and his Host plunged

to the ground, advancing with groans and snarls.

The lady stood with her stalwart troop,

none flinching or turning at the fiendish faces.

She answered, “If it is battle you desire, sir,

then fight me, one on one. But I think

it best you shift your Host to the sea,

find quarry far from my domain!”

But the shadow king raised his blade,

and as one, his Host drew back.

With demon-sword against dwarf-made

steel, the king struck against the lady—

that steadfast fighter, protector of her people.

She’d learned the craft from matchless masters,

her sword-skill beyond all belief.

She parried and swung, swatted and attacked.

Fast came the clangor of blade

on blade, blade on shield-wood.

That diabolical prince could not best her strength

though he was mighty and driven by rage.

His haloed inferno could not inflict injury,

despite the flames lapping the lady’s form

and fire wheeling in his wake.

They fought to a standstill, a draw without doubt.

As the ring of the last strike faded,

they finally broke apart. Said the king, 

“Know that we are even fleeter in flight—

you will never follow us from sea to sea

to still our Hunt or hinder our quest.

Long we’ve been accursed by the Lord of Lords,

sentenced to search, wandering in hell

under this scourge for failing to defeat your Saxon

horde. The afterworld is denied to us

unless we restore our queen to reign.

In misery I’ll not leave my loyal men,

yet I tell you now: no queen will we have,

for I am Artorius Rex, the Pendragon.”

Complete quietness fell on the lady

and her trusted troop. All well knew

the glory of that king and his courageous warriors,

the pitiful dishonor of his queen and his companion

which caused strife and desperate killing

those half-thousand years past.

A swift sorrow for the king and the Host

overtook the Lady Ælfwynn, who never

turned from suffering, sadness or need.

Thus the spirited Lady of Mercia spoke,

“My lord king, you have brought death

to Mercia and anguish to her weary subjects.

Though I cannot allow this Hunt to continue,

your despair grips me most strongly.

So now I’ll say: The Light has returned

to these shores; surely your offense is forgiven.”

Said the king, “No door has opened before us.

Should we leave for the salted sea, as you say, 

this ceaseless pain would still abide.

We cannot sleep while forced to this restless search.”

At this, the lady almost lost all hope. 

She saw cemeteries spreading over Mercia, and ancient

champions changed to demons forever.

But as the sun started to rise, an answer

arrived in her heart. Thus she spoke,

“Though you robbed the lives of our folk without warrant,

I am gravely grieved to pity at your plight.

For Mercia and for you, I choose to fulfill 

the terms of your curse most freely.” 

At this her guard gasped, but the lady said,

“I understand the truth of this thing I offer.”

With these words, the Host erupted in wonder,

in delight and relief from their bitter malediction.

But the king stayed silent, fire whipping

his bone-gaunt face, gouts 

of horrid heat lashing at his Host. 

Then he lowered his exalted sword,

Excalibur created in the groves of Avalon,

and spoke, “Through mercy, all love and life

pass into peace, into death’s dwelling.

Go, and find your beloved ones arisen.”

The lady’s scouts spurred away,

then returned at speed, to attest the miracle

of those women’s deaths undone.

In silence, Ælfwynn, Lady of Mercia,

her sword sheathed, approached the Host.

She accorded the king her warm hand,

and together they turned to the hills, their Host

following in a river of glittering light.

Soundlessly they left, released at last,

their glow dying out against the tor

and never seen again in this world.

V.

HE people wept for the loss of their lady,

remembering the life she well used.

They exclaimed the honor of her sacrifice given

freely to the ill-fated king and Host

and her noble openhanded generosity.

They sang her praises and said prayers

in her name, the dearest and greatest defender 

of the folk, the most forgiving and fair.