Category: Miscellany

Quiet, gode people, as we praise a quiet worker,

sound the voices from the Eastern thrones.

 

We call one from whose hands the finest fibers flow,

Albreda Aylese, who sets the spear-beam into binding.

 

With strong rods does the thread resound for her.

The whirring shuttle moves across a sea of strands.

The weavers rods her oars, the lozenges her woolen waves,

Her songs are ancient, rhythmic ones.

 

Her progress passes as many nights

as swan-road journeys in the summer.
As snow-hare stands in silent footprint

still, she sits, softly guiding sweetest silk.

She crafts the pattern, bright or subtle.

Flowers bloom eternal at her bid.

Æthelstan would blush at such gifts as she gives.

 

Witness her name weave’d in history

as the newest of the Order of the Maunche.

 

In her heart-home deep in Coldwood,

At the Closing of the Inne

She is granted arms to bear,

Vert, a winged frog salient Or,

Whose form soars o’er the warp and weft

Away from this lateness of September,

on this twenty-fourth day, in Our fifty-first year.

 

It is so done by the hand of King Kenric and Queen Avelina.

* * * * * * *

(Calligraphy by Rhonwen Glyn Conwy, Illumination by ______________

Text by Aneleda Falconbridge, inspired by the Anglo Saxon riddles of the Exeter Book)

 

---

The inspiration was from Anglo Saxon riddles found in the Exeter Book (and some epic poetry and a little norse-ish prose.)

37 (k-d 56) https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Anglo-Saxon_Riddles_of_the_Exeter_Book/37

 

I was in there where I saw something, a thing of wood, wound a striving thing, the moving beam —it received battle wounds, deep injuries; spears caused the hurts of this thing; and the wood was fast bound cunningly. One of its feet was stable, fixed; the other worked busily, played in the air, sometimes near the ground. A tree was nearby, that stood there hung with bright leaves. I saw the leavings of the arrow-work brought to my lord where heroes sat over their drinks.

Ic wæs þær Inne þær ic ane geseah winnende · wiht wido bennegean holt hweorfende heaþoglemma feng deopra dolga daroþas wæron weo þære wihte     ⁊ se wudu searwum fæste gebunden hyre fota wæs biid fæft oþer · oþer bisgo dreag leolc on lyfte hwilum londe neah treow wæs getenge þe þær torhtan stod leafum bihongen Ic lafe geseah minum hlaforde þær hæleð druncon þara flan on flet beran

The favored solution is Weaver’s Loom. The “striving thing” is the web still in the loom; it is injured by the needle or shuttle passing through it. The spears or darts “must be the teeth of the batten penetrating through the warp.” “The two feet can only be the weighted ends of the two rows of warp threads.” The tree with leaves is a distaff, with flax on it; and the standing warp explains the metaphor of feet. On this see the learned and well-documented article by Erika von Erhardt-Siebold, “The Old English Loom Riddles,” Philologica, Malone Anniversary Studies, Baltimore, 1949, pp. 9–17. Mrs. von Erhardt-Siebold includes with the Loom Riddles 50 (k-d 35), Coat of Mail, which is related insofar as chain mail resembles weaving; and 45 (k-d 70), which is usually solved as Reed Pipe (p. 37 below).

 

Me the wet ground, exceeding cold, first brought forth from within itself. Neither am I wrought of woolen fleece nor of hairs, with skill; I know it in my mind. I have no winding wefts nor any warp in me; nor with strong rods does the thread resound for me, nor the whirring shuttle move across me, nor the weaver’s rods anywhere smite me. Worms do not weave me with fatal wiles which fairly adorn the fine yellow web. Yet nevertheless the wide world over one will call me a joyful garment for heroes. Say now truly, you cunning sage, learned in language, what this garment may be.

10

Mec se wæta wong wundrum freorig of his innaþe ærist cende ne wat ic mec beworhtne wulle flysum hærum þurh heahcræft hygeþoncum min · wundene me ne beoð wefle ne ic wearp hafu ne þurh þreata geþræcu þræd me ne hlimmeð ne æt me hrutende hrisil scriþeð ne mec ohwonan sceal amas cnyssan wyrmas mec ne ā wæfan · wyrda cræftum þa þe geolo godwebb geatwum frætwað wile mec mon hwæþre seþeah wide ofer eorþan hatan for hæleþū hyhtlic gewæde · saga soðcwidum searoþoncum gleaw wordum wisfæst hwæt þis ge wædu sy

In short, a Coat of Mail—woven, but not of wool or of silk. Weaving is suggested, yet with a series of exclusions to show that the thing is not what you would at first suppose.

 

On the first part of the journey

I was looking at all the life

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rings

The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz

And the sky with no clouds

The heat was hot and the ground was dry

But the air was full of sound

 

I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert you can remember your name

‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain

La, la …

 

After two days in the desert sun

My skin began to turn red

After three days in the desert fun

I was looking at a river bed

And the story it told of a river that flowed

Made me sad to think it was dead

 

You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert you can remember your name

‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain

La, la …

 

After nine days I let the horse run free

‘Cause the desert had turned to sea

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rings

The ocean is a desert with its life underground

And a perfect disguise above

Under the cities lies a heart made of ground

But the humans will give no love

 

You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert you can remember your name

‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain

La, la …
On long road to the tourney

I was looking at all the strife

There were serfs and pigs and rocks and thanes

There was sand and hills and Danes

The first thing that I met was a bee with a buzz

and the sky with no clouds

The heat was hot and the ground was dry

And there were peasants on the ground.

 

I’ve gone to the tourney on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

On the swan-road you can remember your name

‘Cause there ain’t no knights for to give you more pain,

Fa la, fa la la la la, Fa la la la la la la….

 

After two days in the dappled sun

My helm was hot on my head

Three days on a horse is no fun –

I was looking for a tavern bed.

But I was lost instead by a river that glowed

And I thought I might be dead.

 

You see

I’ve gone to the tourney on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

On the swan-road you can remember your name

‘Cause there ain’t no knights for to give you more pain,

Fa la, fa la la la la, Fa la la la la la la….

 

After nine days I let the horse run free

Cause the tourney would start without me

There were dwarves and fae and rocks and thanes

There was sand and hills and plains

The faerie land has its life underground

and a perfect disguise above

Under the hillsides lies a heart made of ground

And the humans will give it no love.

 

You see

I’ve gone to the tourney on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

On the swan-road you can remember your name

‘Cause there ain’t no knights for to give you more pain,

Fa la, fa la la la la, Fa la la la la la la….