Read Online Oxfordshire Folktales by Kevan Manwaring - Free Book Online
Authors: Kevan Manwaring
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midwinter sacrifice to the Norse god Freyr is enacted every year in Queen’s College, Oxford – a notion to relish, but perhaps one that is best ervitor cum sinapio : served with mustard!
Here are the lyrics to the ancient Boar’s Head Carol
(one version of several):
The boar’s head in hand bear I
Bedecked with bay and rosemary
I pray you, my masters, be merry
Quot estis in convivio.
(However many are at the feast)
Chorus:
Caput apri defero,
Reddens laudes domino .
(I bring the boar’s head,
giving praises to the Lord)
The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedecked with a gay garland
Let us servire cantico
(serve with song)
Chorus
Our steward hath provided this
In honor of the King of bliss
Which, on this day to be served is
In Reginensi atrio
(in the Queen’s hall)
Chorus
Ten
T HE D RAGON C UP
The two armies lined up either side of the ice-cold river Brue; the banners of the white horse of Wessex and the black hound of Mercia faced each other above the arrow-heads of tents. They had been camped there, on the flood meadow, for many days. Food and firewood was in short supply and tempers were frayed. It was the dead of winter and it seemed hope had died also. The endless cold was making the men sharp-tongued and quick to violence. The warriors of Beorna were like bears with sore heads, surly and dangerous. They took to sharpening their weapons and polishing their armour.
They had come to Bernecestre to make a treaty – for it stood on the borderland between Mercia and Wessex. Two kingdoms at war, and caught in the middle – Beorna, the local chieftain, who gave his name to ‘the fort of the warriors of the Bear’. He had protected his people for many seasons; his great beard was peppered, his heavy brows bearing a slash of white scar across one side. He wore the bearskin of his totem – the mighty fur draped over his massive frame and covering his crown with a frozen snarl. He leant upon his favourite weapon, the two-handled battle-axe and spat into the mud of the Pingle – the no man’s land stretching across to the enemy camp. To step foot on it was an act of war. The armies were on tenterhooks, and looking for the slightest provocation not to sign the treaty. The peace treaty had taken many months of negotiation, largely by the white-cloaked priests – who prided themselves on being meek, humble peacemakers. At first these strange ‘men of the white’ were mocked by Beorna and his warriors – they were not real men. No steel by their thigh, only twigs, some jibed. Yet something about their humble persistence intrigued Beorna – after knowing decades of conflict he was weary.
Surely, there had to be another way?
In the centre of the Pingle there was a single oak tree. Its branches swirled in the wind, which howled around the armies that day, bringing with it biting hailstones, clattering onto the carts, hissing into the braziers, sending anything not secured flying: stools and tankards, shields and banners. There was a devil in the air, all the men agreed. Beorna growled at them, and his entourage fell silent. ‘Are you warriors, or women?’ he bellowed. ‘I need men today – for what we have to do takes strength and courage. Any fool can make war; but it takes a wise man to make peace.’
‘But the Mercians are scum!’ snarled one of his shieldmen. More murmurs of assent. ‘They have raided our lands for decades, raping our women, stealing our cattle, burning our villages. And you want us to make peace with them!’ Roars of indignation echoed around the mead-hall.
‘Yes! As the White Brothers say, if we do not forgive, how can we ever move on? How can things heal?’
Sounds of scepticism hissed like rain in the fire-pit.
‘It may seem strange to us,’ Beorna continued, ‘we are more used to letting our steel do the talking.’ The men laughed in self-congratulation. ‘But for once, men, think with the steel
Here are the lyrics to the ancient Boar’s Head Carol
(one version of several):
The boar’s head in hand bear I
Bedecked with bay and rosemary
I pray you, my masters, be merry
Quot estis in convivio.
(However many are at the feast)
Chorus:
Caput apri defero,
Reddens laudes domino .
(I bring the boar’s head,
giving praises to the Lord)
The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedecked with a gay garland
Let us servire cantico
(serve with song)
Chorus
Our steward hath provided this
In honor of the King of bliss
Which, on this day to be served is
In Reginensi atrio
(in the Queen’s hall)
Chorus
Ten
T HE D RAGON C UP
The two armies lined up either side of the ice-cold river Brue; the banners of the white horse of Wessex and the black hound of Mercia faced each other above the arrow-heads of tents. They had been camped there, on the flood meadow, for many days. Food and firewood was in short supply and tempers were frayed. It was the dead of winter and it seemed hope had died also. The endless cold was making the men sharp-tongued and quick to violence. The warriors of Beorna were like bears with sore heads, surly and dangerous. They took to sharpening their weapons and polishing their armour.
They had come to Bernecestre to make a treaty – for it stood on the borderland between Mercia and Wessex. Two kingdoms at war, and caught in the middle – Beorna, the local chieftain, who gave his name to ‘the fort of the warriors of the Bear’. He had protected his people for many seasons; his great beard was peppered, his heavy brows bearing a slash of white scar across one side. He wore the bearskin of his totem – the mighty fur draped over his massive frame and covering his crown with a frozen snarl. He leant upon his favourite weapon, the two-handled battle-axe and spat into the mud of the Pingle – the no man’s land stretching across to the enemy camp. To step foot on it was an act of war. The armies were on tenterhooks, and looking for the slightest provocation not to sign the treaty. The peace treaty had taken many months of negotiation, largely by the white-cloaked priests – who prided themselves on being meek, humble peacemakers. At first these strange ‘men of the white’ were mocked by Beorna and his warriors – they were not real men. No steel by their thigh, only twigs, some jibed. Yet something about their humble persistence intrigued Beorna – after knowing decades of conflict he was weary.
Surely, there had to be another way?
In the centre of the Pingle there was a single oak tree. Its branches swirled in the wind, which howled around the armies that day, bringing with it biting hailstones, clattering onto the carts, hissing into the braziers, sending anything not secured flying: stools and tankards, shields and banners. There was a devil in the air, all the men agreed. Beorna growled at them, and his entourage fell silent. ‘Are you warriors, or women?’ he bellowed. ‘I need men today – for what we have to do takes strength and courage. Any fool can make war; but it takes a wise man to make peace.’
‘But the Mercians are scum!’ snarled one of his shieldmen. More murmurs of assent. ‘They have raided our lands for decades, raping our women, stealing our cattle, burning our villages. And you want us to make peace with them!’ Roars of indignation echoed around the mead-hall.
‘Yes! As the White Brothers say, if we do not forgive, how can we ever move on? How can things heal?’
Sounds of scepticism hissed like rain in the fire-pit.
‘It may seem strange to us,’ Beorna continued, ‘we are more used to letting our steel do the talking.’ The men laughed in self-congratulation. ‘But for once, men, think with the steel
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