In Hoxne, Sudfolc, tall and august I sit upon Abbey Hill, an ancient steward standing sentinel over barren fields. Winterfylleth in its zenith adorns me in ornaments of gold, leafy raiment that only the advent winds of winter may reclaim. The afternoon sun anoints my head with light, as if proclaiming, “Here is your lord, O Anglia, with whom Heaven is well pleased!”
This heralding, however, yields no cries or cheers. No wheat or barley is left to bend and bow in the gentle breeze like subjects paying homage with a soft, swishing song, “Be thou hale, king!” In haerfest battle did I watch them fall beneath scythe and feet, carried off as provisions for mortal men and beasts. My life was spared the axe once more, my crown retained though in winter shall the soil’s prize be.
In these final hours of my perennial reign I bask in the tepid warmth of these fleeting days, dreading the touch of icy fingers plucking greedily at my limbs. Swiftly and surely the usurping winter descends, showering spittle of rain and snow upon my newly crownless head.
Even the sun is denied its splendor by clouds of black and grey, its light becoming a stranger to me as Blotmonath signals a sanguine season. But strong and still stand I in spite of taunting weather, dormant and benumbed to the suffering of others.
Yet in the dawning of the twentieth day, my eyes behold the plight of a mighty horde. Berserking Danes in ranks combine, some on foot, others on steed. With torches bright as the hidden sun, their flames appear as dragon’s eyes.
The glint of axe and sword penetrates my oaken armor, striking fear deep into my roots, as Kent fretted the Jutes in days of yore, like fowl frets the fox. “Maker, kindling for their campfires let not my bones provide!” flies my orison to the heavens above, “May this heathen army pay me no heed as did other mortal men before!”
As this force approaches, I hear a clamorous chorus of mail and gait, feel the tremor of a thousand feet to my furthermost reach. They come dressed in blue and black, with armaments that clack-clack with irritating rhythm, their faces hidden by helms bearing hellish countenance.
They reek of the toil of war, bloodied and dented in their victorious march, wearing their filth as laurel crowns to hail their heathen gods. Shouts arise from the mass as below me they halt to stand, so close and foul had I still my crown their breath it would shrivel.
A half-hush falls upon them though somewhere a voice is heard, singing softly though I cannot make out the words. The joyous song grows louder as the singer approaches, a minstrel ragged and chained, dragged up through the columns by two Danish knaves.
His face is bruised and battered, his head helmless and once golden hair sullied as his bloodied lips let slip his song. His body is broken yet his voice remains strong, ignorant to the jeers and quiet laughter trickling through the host. He sings of a god split in three, of grace and goodness following him all his days, of mortal death and life eternal.
A tall, Danish lord follows closely behind, his visage veiled by polished steel as suddenly he roars, “Tie the Christian king to that tree upon the hill! Let us make his singing louder still!” My defenses falter as towards me they progress, hauling their captive hence with frenzied speed.
But I see the prisoner’s gaze lift to me, its fire all at once beautiful and strange. His sea green eyes seep with sunlight, his youthful features fair and noble in agony. A swollen smile reveals flash of white teeth as for a moment he ceases his song, emitting an utterance just barely heard above the thundering throng, “Great is your favor, O God, that I should share in thy pains at Calvary!”
My oaken heart cleaves in two at the sound of his words, for I know well the sufferings of this conquered English lord. His kingdom in ruin and his subjects spoils of men and chattel, his golden crown struck from his own anointed head. Conscience awakens my soul once more from solemn slumber, my timbered fortress stalwart as within I cry, “Blessed art thou, O Maker, that I may share in this sovereign’s death!”
About my ancient bole they tie him with rope coarse and thick, brutish hands tearing at his royal vestments til naked he stands shivering in the wintry air. His limbs stretch and strain in this crude confinement, bared flesh white as the fresh fallen snow, his head held high in the midst of his foe.
The pagan chief stalks to stand before this sacrificial lamb, a priest to bless the offering before the slaughter is commenced. “Shall Edmund sing a hymn to Odin to spare his life today?” bellows the Danish warlord with a wolven sneer, “A song great and terrible for all of Christendom to hear!” Yet he who is called Edmund wavers not, meeting his usurper’s apostate mercy with one final prayer to his triune God, “My spirit, O Lord, into thy hands commend!”