O! MANY STRANGE DAYS BRIDGE THE AGE GONE BY,

Our days darkened, desperate and evil.

Men grow lean and gaunt, as ghosts in the night—

Little loyalty remains among them,

Less so to Our Savior, the Son of God.

It is riches men covet and care for,

But glory and renown, desired by all,

Are friend to the few, as flashes of sun

In a dark forest-grove, craving sunlight,

Festering in filth, at last unfertile,

Like fallow land, awaiting the sower.

The human heart, half-divided by Hell,

The devil deceives even through good deeds.

Pagan pieties, baptised by paternal

Monks from monasteries mighty and high-hewn,

Are seduced again with silver-tongued promises,

Cherishing gifts, cheap trinkets for children;

So too let Christians care only for Christ, 

For the devil leads nations into distress

Through plentitude as well as plunder,

And lowly lusts turn all our laws to jest,

While the world is in haste, and nears its end.

HEN Edwin was buried, Northumbria was released

To tyrants who plundered and tore from its riches,

Fighting new feuds, and faring well only

For their helping horde. Even noble-hearted pagans

In their worship of idols with evil prophecies

Could not command the peace of Christian love.

Such was England’s state After Edwin’s death,

In tattered remnants, until Oswald returned

From cloak and cloister, beyond Kentish lands.

So Oswald began among the Irish lands—

Adopted in Iona by Adelbert the monk.

Acha his mother died, Aethelfirth his father

Killed in combat. Clad in green hues Oswald,

Wandered far afield from the hill-houses,

Naming foxes his friends on fenland paths,

Slept under open airs among the wild beasts,

Gained a Gaelic demeanor, grew under 

Heaven’s eye, hale by the hearth and fire,

Now boasting a beard, brown like his hair;

Labored long in the fields, learned the language

Of the Pictish and Irish from the tribesman.

Lived like a wastrel, layed about and roamed

Between abbey prayers and bardic intonations.

In the Scottish court of the king of Dál Riata

He heard chronicles, rich chords on the harp,

Tragedies of false triumphs, terrors of sword

That killed his kinsmen—killed or exiled.

Five years Oswald festered, finding idle games,

Tournaments and trials, trifles of training,

Knowing well Northumbria awaited him.

HEN rose the sun-star, safe-guard of the day,

Its fair fountain light fading the darkness,

And Oswald’s eyes were opened suddenly,

Without warning waking him from dull slumber,

Considered his father’s kingdom, its crumbled state,

A grapevine in a dead yard, with yellowed vines,

Its hedges hardened, hacked and trampled.

So Oswald determined to upraise an army—

Second-in-command, Oswy his brother;

Twelve abbey brothers, bold-trained warriors

Ventured their valor, as servants of prayer,

Though also well-witted with bow-and-arrow;

From Hibernian highland they hired men

To espy and to scout—soldiers of fortune;

When the lord of Dal Riata heard this rumor,

He helped Oswald, hastening his venture,

Advanced him an army, at least four-hundred,

With horses for heavy loads, half a hundred

Carts equipped with complements of tools.

They needed also men of Northumbria,

So scouted and searched, asking between towns,

Learning Cadwalla’s movements, his latter campaigns.

In late summer they marched, in early morning,

Staying their course, right-side to stone,

Along Adrian’s wall, old emperor of Rome,

But hid their emblems, their banners of the air,

Meaning to move secretly, an army unrevealed,

And wondered if Cadwalla heard whispers

Of their quiet coming, their shadow attack.

ALF-WAY between hearths in that hill country

Was a wondrous field, a wide stretching land

That lay half-lost, bewildered on either

Side of its slopes with sedges and grasses,

Encornered copses where unbroken beasts

Fortress within furrows—foxes and wolves,

Field mice and martens, and many kinds of birds

In their lofts of tree-limbs or low-latticed grasses— 

Red grouse, ring ouzel, and red-breasted robins.

The babbling brook broke winding through the field,

The low-lying stream lacing up between

Young saplings, yews, oaks, and waving aspens,

Slipping steeply into the unsilent wood where

Neither man nor woman dare wander alone.

But here the field apaced the ground in open strides:

Past the peat bogs and pillowed mounds,

Fields of soft heather, fanwort and fen orchid.

There was a wild harmony in its song,

A lovingkindness unknown in pagan gods.

Oswald’s warriors were awed by its beauty— 

Holy they’d hail it, and name it Heavensfield

At the end of their strife, taking its name 

Close to bruised breast, under battered hauberk,

Defending their lord, whose land was their home.

Encamped under open sky, Oswald lately

Sent up his scouts, those stout Scotsmen

Of Hibernian highland, to hark any sighting

Of Cadwalla’s army, lest they walk unknown

Along them across the brook, assembled densely

Behind tree or tract, turning the corner.

The Scotsman's Report

“We waited long whiles, in the wee hours,

Till we saw the sky ope, sighted wicked banners,

Men on the muir, an army, sure enough,

Cadwalla’s carls, encamped to meet us,

Tented together, twelve-hundred in all,

Between the brae, blithering and drunk,

Dancing couthy until dead and done out,

A midden on the meadow, fair by the burn— 

But sentries by the copse, nearer to our spot,

Entertained not at all, but invited,

What’s more, like magic, the Mercian army!”

When Oswald heard his words his heart was struck

With a straining fear, uneasy at the thought

Of so many enemies, outnumbering

Northumbrians, maybe, by two thirds.

A man of small manners, this Mercian king,

Penda the pagan, proud without mercy,

Blithe in bloodshed, barbarian and uncouth,

Honor-bound pagan, a king of glory-seeking.

Though avowed was his wickedness, worse yet

Was King Cadwalla, his Christian ally,

So called, though his faith had only a sword

For plunder and profit, his faith a perfidy,

Treachery chained like a charm on his neck.

Then Oswald saw, away down some distance,

A wood beyond the brook, baleful and grim,

A palisade to parley, providing some

Shelter to shape a plan, shore up their hope.

RAUGHT and forlorn, they made fearful retreat,

Into a deep-hued hollow, a hidden glade,

Sunless and restive, concealed in dark shades.

Trodding new trails, trampling the brush,

Entrapped at odd angles by the overgrowth,

Undoing coat and clasp, confusing their movements,

Draped in deep greens for some distance.

Proceeding apace, they passed a hollow,

Discerned the den of a wolf, indented

Where the she-wolf suckles her whelps.

Then they entered another part of the wood,

Open and empty, with mattressed mosses,

Where sunlight slipped in streams from high bowers,

Armor sudden arrayed, illuminated,

Shining in shadow, washed in white light,

Till, silent at sunset, silver light faded.

The troop took their tents, tacked them to ground, 

Working, or swallowing food, whispering anger

At their retreat, repenting their cowardice,

Others silently slandering Oswald’s command.

They said little for long whiles lest a spy 

Fly among their flock, with fleeting ears.

They shed their chainmail, and their shirts,

Flung clothing and weapons with abandon,

Carelessly causing such a commotion

That Oswald was alerted and took his arms,

Full-fledged in his gear and war-shift,

Moved liked a mouse amid their noisy din, 

Amid their reckless words, witless of their host— 

Alighted atop a tree felled on its side,

Shouting, “Hush and shift yourselves

To hear my new commands! You three,

Make fires. Let every man gather an armful

Of lumber, and sling your mailshirts to display

On branches as in a bold wardrobe!

For when you wake, God wishes well

The one man made ready to meet the day.

But take kind comfort, and be courageous,

As your wife may murmur in your left ear,

So let the Lord’s words whisper in your right.

Confide your distress to the confluence

Of divine fate. The Lord delivereth, and taketh.”

But the thanes were fearful, their thoughts dark,

For it seemed they were cursed, enclosed in the gloom,

To be killed at daybreak. The king said nothing,

Standing in silence beneath his red hauberk.

A sword he held at its hilt, of silver and white,

Lamgwin he’d named it, and knew it would fall

On flesh and foil. And confidence was in him

Facing the firelit camp, and all his men,

Arranging their armor and arms, except— 

A single soldier stood opposing him now,

Heightened to his head, as a half-giant,

With proud posture gathered all to his purpose,

And with loud traitorous words warned Oswald

That all were against his endeavor

To retake Cadwalla’s lands, a Christian king

Through Arian apostolic erudition.

To part asunder the pagan-christian peace,

A kingdom thrice torn, its thanes already

Benighted between double thrones— 

And he, an exile, happily hidden away,

Rising for revenge, raising war cries

To plunder his own people for power!

The rebuke rang in the ears of all the men,

And Oswald stood straight, silent with anger

Against the false witness of this faithless soldier,

Whose vile visage was invisible,

Not did his fair voice ring familiarly

From among his men, English or Scottish.

Oswald stepped from tree to stone, sword drawn back

For the enemy spy, who cried ruefully,

Flailing, all-fours like a flea-bitten dog.

His brother’s blade was borne from its sheath—

Oswy, the king’s kin, second-in-command— 

Now swung at the traitor, but struck nothing,

For no man remained, but the simple rubble

Of the earthen floor. But Oswy, wordless,

Turned Oswald’s eyes back to the fallen tree,

Where a wolf bestrode its length, watching them.

Now Oswy took two stones, standing tall,

And clapped them together with such fervor

That after a while the wolf slipped away

Into the night, with a mournful howl.

The two quietly exchanged wise words,

Oswald proudly praising his brother’s strength:

“Thrice faithful thane, friend, fellow warrior.”

UT downtrodden he traipsed back to his tent,

Weary and worn, wishing nothing but slumber,

But sleeping uneasy, and with tender pains,

Until a sweet scented herb stirred his senses,

Brought him to an abode, baleful in its dimness.

A thickness of cold then came about him,

Filling his body with knife-edged breaths.

An unknown neighbor whispered, entered,

White whiskered, and wearing humble clothing,

A shaman of Irish bent, with churlish grin,

But in truth, thought he, a thorough wash

Would do wonders for the old wanderer,

Since he stank, smelling lushly of bird-spawn,

Reeking to ripeness, rotten, abandoned.

The Old Man Speaks

“Ah friend, how fair you ride with fading strength,

Your faith tried and true, with unthwarted hope.

But see the shape and shame of history,

Those lesser lords—your loutish uncle, Edwin,

Surrendering to the sword, saving nothing,

Even his own life, lost in the earthly-realm,

Now but a wraith, riding in the night’s abyss.

I come in your hour of need, as a neighbor,

With piercing spectral eye, foreseeing your fate,

Gladly giving counsel, a guest in my house.

And what I with my wisdom counsel you

Is to sleep soundly, so you ride rested

In the morning, nine hours to the mark,

When Cadwalla will raise his war banner.

Beware those brethren who belay your commands

(Curséd be the man of cloth, the clergy

With their meagre advisions of defeat!)

You may listen politely, seemly kind,

To lieutenants with lay knowledge of war

(Blesséd are the youthful, keen and callow,

Whose spirits spur the blood to action!)

But above all else, believe this advice—

Take comfort in strong steel, for victory

Is yours over the earth, and all therein.

Your thanes think you a thousand times beloved,

Their lief lord, lifted to magnification— 

As their geld grows, your glory and renown

Also, for yours is this kingdom of earth.”

HEN the winsome old father went away,

Oswald upright entered the outside door,

And all about gray, the air greatly thick,

Brimming with brine, as strongly as the sea,

Until the aroma in his nostrils

Washed away, whisked in the bracing breeze.

A boat by the seaboard he now sighted,

A wicker currach, coated with leather,

Filled with fisherman, and flailing fish,

In deep nets, as fashioned in Iona.

A brother of that abbey became known

Through the thickness of the weather,

His humble habit in hues of forest green;

His countenance was kind, cast forthrightly,

Simple and stern, but filled with understanding,

With gray eyes, a great gray beard flowing down.

His right hand held a plain bishop’s staff,

Which he stuck in the sand to steady himself.

He departed his boat, directing Oswald’s eyes,

Pointing to a parting of three pine trees

Wherein one branch grew apart its parent,

Straightward stretching across its two siblings.

A wolf awaited nearby, yowling its song— 

When Oswald moved so that one tree obscured

Another, the animal advanced between

Them circling twice around each tree. 

But when Oswald went again to his spot

And three trees were restored before his eyes,

The wolf went his own way, yowling complaint.

Then Columba, broad shoulders beside him,

Spoke softly and stern: “sleep not this night, 

For all your faith is required, and fortitude

Against the enemy whose avarice

Stalks your soul even now between slumbers.

Appeal with prayer, keep the long vigil

Fill it with waiting and watchfulness

As your servants sleep soundly for battle.

For heaven’s hand, on heaven’s field

Fills the field tomorrow, flights of arrows

Turning the tide, determined alone by God.

For a while. Until the wyrm inflamed

Returns, for true rest is only in Christ.

Heaven helps you, but have your eyes open!

NEASY in that early hour, Oswald

Woke in the warm night, wandered nearby,

Resting upright wearily against an oak,

Praying the Lord’s Prayer with penitent heart

Until in the silence he understood.

His men took the tree, cut it at its base,

Felled it swiftly, falling in such a way

That light was let in, little but enough

For their night’s work as they whittled,

Measuring its width with Oswald’s arms outstretched.

Oswald thought awhile, wary of his pride— 

How cursed on Calvary were those captains,

Below the Lord in his lamentations—

How blessed he was now, heart in prayer

To uplift this load, among faithful thanes,

This cross they had carved in quick night.

BOVE was the loving warmth of early amber,

Beneath it, good men bearing their burden,

The cross of the Christ, against Cadwalla.

Dirty, defeated they found endurance

In the effacing sun, easing their spirits

As each man’s face felt a stinging sweat,

Gripped from the grove the great oaken beams,

Hoisted heavily from their hunched shoulders

Into the universal earthen interior

Joined and jointed, adjudging the scene

Of kings and killing. So the kestrel

Flew lightly over the labors of men,

Through morning mist made its way,

So thick no eye penetrated until it lifted.

Only then did Oswald observe their enemy:

Penda the Pagan first, then his presider,

The quarallous Cadwalla, quick-to-plunder,

Strong in his war-reed, fair and redoubted.

Satan’s song he sang, though sacrilegiously

Taking the tenets, talked of his faith,

Understanding only the ugly and ungodly,

Invoking God’s name vainly, with graven hopes,

As would a warlord to his weaker gods,

Yelling and gyrating, yielding but nothing.

Oswald's Prayer

"Let us kneel to the Almighty, Living Lord,

Beseeching his mercy maintain our hearts

Against this merciless enemy force.

He knows how we have taken up our arms

Justly against these unjust mercenaries

For the safety of family and household,

Against the diminishment of our nation.”

The solemn sovereign, and his soldiers waited,

Thinking all thoughts, weighted with prayers.

The enemy advanced ever closer,

Shaped in shining mail, aspects shimmering,

Manly brows molded under metal visage,

Wind-whipped flags flew amid walls of white shields,

Brilliant-tipped beams, their burnishing spears,

Raised with the Red Lion, Roman-descended,

Gwynedd’s proud pennant, their puissance bespoke.

Oswald delivered his dream, drew his plan

To his captains and kin, so the Kentish king would

Face a round defeat, forced to full retreat.

After javelins jetted, their jousts landing,

Shattering shield of many a man, shaft embedded,

And arrows arcing, unabated by wind,

The king and his cross, his kin of the sword, 

Stood seven paces from the severing edge,

On foot to face them, fighting eye-to-eye, 

Blades short and sharp, unsheathed at last.

N grim glory now they gave bold battle

To the surfeit sword, spirits undaunted,

Behold the bright hill they gave their bodies

Pacing and pacing, pounding the earth—

Elbows wound back, awaiting their strike,

And striking swiftly or striking slowly,

Piercing and piercing, pulling back the bow,

Arrows striking swiftly, striking deeply.

Full-hearted they fought on fresh-grown grass— 

Sun-flashed swords swept like fish a-stream

Maddening the blood of mighty men already worn,

Blasted to the bone by the breath of wind.

Death and destruction, drumming of war—

Strikes upon shield, stings on the flesh—

Boiling blood courses through beating hearts

Blood-boiling curses from brazen tongues

Of Cadwalla’s army, filled with anger’s strength.

Blood-curdling cries called by strong men

Who drive the ox early in the fields—

Their shields shone in shimmering sun,

Gained them ground against Oswald’s men

By glare of the gleam in enemy eyes.

Many among Oswald’s Northumbrians

Won Heaven’s reward with holy wounds—

Some to their right-side bruised by the sword—

Some to prayer fell unprompted, pierced at the knee—

Those who stood straight were struck in the breast—

Some wore crowns of arrows, arrayed like thorns,

Briars on their brows, buried, sharp and deep.

Some were pierced upon the foot, pinned to the ground,

Receiving rivets in their hands, rippling blood,

Others heaved heavily, their hearts through steel,

Sword severing through chain to flesh and bone.

Oswald went up also, with the rest of them,

He who’d drawn the dirt, and planted firmly

God’s sword on the slope, the sting of death,

Pushed it upon Penda’s army. There was a passage 

On the landscape, unsought for, unused by any

But coming now as a miracle like the cross— 

For from the perch where Oswald raised the rood,

Downward the hillslope, on its right side,

Where the wall was built between the crag,

A narrow passage, too steep for horses,

Allowing for little but lightly-armed men,

Outwardly flowing, like wide-spreading water,

Flanking and breaking Cadwalla’s right facet,

Now between bulwarks, embanking blue flags,

Where Penda’s white shields were weakened and few.

Cadwalla's End

When Cadwalla had awakened, encamped

To the west where Oswald was hidden,

His heart was full blithe with hardened strength

Until the apparition of Oswald on the hill— 

A mountain it seemed now in morning mist,

As the king clave to the cross, kneeling.

Then upon advancing, the advantage was his

In numbers against the Northumbrian band,

But king came upon him, cross in his palm,

Of pommeled sharp silver, sent Penda packing,

His lone ally, last of his jewel-friends,

Gold-getter and gifter, for glory and honor,

Held high in esteem in the head-thoughts of his kin,

Rightly remembered, if he remained alive,

But Cadwalla thought less, uncrowned of his head,

Uncapped of power, with piercing victory

For northern Northumbria, his neighbor no longer. 

SWALD ruled well, righteous, and rewarding

Good deeds, but the dragon’s yellow fire

Always returns, raining flame and ruin

Burning abundant, bright with destruction,

For the world fills and overflows with sin.

Well we know what breach of law requires—

Great flames require vanquishing waters!

At Maserfelth Oswald met his end,

Matched in battle by Penda the Mercian,

Taken to a tree nearby and with utmost

Breath begged God for the lives of his brethren,

To spare his soldiers, whose souls he might save.

Stretched upon the cross, he shook his life-breath,

Limb and body expelled of the spirit.

Penda cut each mortal part, planted on pikes

Set the severed shapes proudly for display.

Now Northumbria, after nine full years,

Withdrew again from God, returned to ungiving idols,

Its peoples impatient, its princes scornful,

Warding their wards as wicked heathens,

Worshiping wild beasts, Woden’s savage might,

Embracing the earth in ignorance and want,

The hatreds of revenge rancorous in them,

Kingdom for kingdom, killing and stealing,

Staining the stones, storied in bloodshed.

Cries of their captives cast upon the mist,

Gasping in anguish, in pure ignorance,

For God and his goodness, His saving grace.

LORD let the light of Heaven shine forth,

Awake the hardened hearts of the wicked,

Nullify, make nameless the dominion of evil;

Of thine eternal wisdom, of our own need,

Award understanding, wherefore our faith

Never fail for fortitude and courage;

Of thy Judgement only let us have dread,

Awestruck by Heaven’s horn, its hopeful strains

Now exclaiming clear thy second coming—

For surely and quickly thou comest, O Lord

God, who is, who was, and is to come.

HE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST BE WITH YOU ALL. AMEN.

ERE I lay me after battle,

My head upon a stone,

All about me are my fellows,

Felled upon the loam.

Their wounds were great in battle

Against heathens in the field,

Slain to holy martyrdom

Under heathen banner-shield.

I saw the slaughter of my king

By the glade at Minsterbrook,

Saw his figure on his horse

When his Life-Breath shook.

Where is his kingdom now, O Lord,

But fallen to the weak?

Against the heathen sword

Can the righteous remain meek?

Where is the help, where the hero,

Where the rider on his steed?

Where the healing caretaker

With drink for thirsty need?

As I lay alone in darkness

The wolf from glen cries out.

Help me of my wounds O Lord,

And encompass me about.